


Interregnum Chronicles

by IncantationFetter



Series: The Interregnum Chronicles [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2020-10-26 23:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 66,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncantationFetter/pseuds/IncantationFetter
Summary: The Interregnum Chronicles is a prose retelling of the Elder Scrolls Online story geared toward people who have not played the game but who would like to experience the story and characters.  It features an ensemble cast of both original characters and characters from the game, and will feature several slow-burn romances (both straight and queer).  This is an open-ended series, but each novella-length chapter will complete a small story arc.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young woman finds herself trapped in a cell, with no memory of who she is or how she got there. With the help (and hindrance) of other prisoners, she must fight her way out, discovering scraps of her identity along the way.

She’d been in the cell for a while when the noise started, and that’s all she could say for certain. For all she knew, she’d been born in that cell. 

There was a feeling of waiting, as though someone was eventually going to collect her for some purpose, but no one ever came. For days? Weeks? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure where the idea of _days_ and _weeks_ came from. She knew they existed, but they didn’t exist _here_, and she remembered no place other than _here_. This cell.

But then there was noise. 

Screams, the sound of large things breaking. Doors? Shouting. Sharp metallic clashes… weapons. She remembered weapons. Battle. Itched for a sword in her hand. A shield. Whatever was happening, she wanted in. 

She moved to the door of her cell, wrapped her hands around the bars. Could see nothing, until the woman ran by.

An enormous woman, tall and broad and muscular, with a battleaxe and a long thick straw-colored braid. _Nord_, her mind supplied helpfully. But this woman was taller even than a Nord should be. The woman skidded to a halt just past the cell. Doubled back.

“Whoa there,” she said. “Someone else, alive? In _here_?” The Nord didn’t give her time to grope for words. “I’m Lyris,” she said. “Can you fight? Let’s get you out of there.” Lyris hefted her axe, then bashed the lock so hard that it broke. She pointed to some dead bodies strewn about the floor outside and barked, “Grab a weapon and follow me! Hurry!”

The bodies on the floor weren’t men or women, though they were about the same size and shape. They were… something else. Dark skin, small horns. Dead red eyes. 

_Daedra_. The word floated to the front of her mind, but she had no context for it except: bad. Very bad. The very _definition_ of bad. But one of the daedra had a spiked mace, and a shield, too. On a gut impulse she stole them off the corpse and ran after Lyris, whom she noticed belatedly was dressed in the same gray prisoner-rags that she herself wore.

They seemed to be moving through a cave system; cruel, sharp stalactites descended from above. The next room was full of cages. Great chains hung from above, some with wicked hooks at the end and bodies impaled upon them. The daedra here were, unfortunately, not dead. There were two of them, and they were armed and ready. 

She didn’t remember being trained in battle, but somehow her body knew what to do. She knew when to turn up her shield to block the cruel curved sword that came slashing down, knew when the daedra was vulnerable and she could break its ribs with her mace, bash its skull. Lyris was clearly familiar with that battleaxe as well; the two daedra lasted less than a minute under their combined onslaught. 

Before they’d quite made it to the exit, though, a phantom appeared suddenly between them and the door.

The apparition was translucent, difficult to see, but the image appeared to be that of a robed old man. His face was harrowed, his form stooped and frail. His eyes were blank white orbs that stared through rather than at her.

“The Prophet!” Lyris half-whispered in awe, coming to an abrupt stop. 

“Vestige of Livia Verrus,” the old man said, his voice unexpectedly strong, almost commanding. “Can you hear me?”

_Livia Verrus_. Her name. How did he know it, when she had not until he spoke it? It felt, in some strange way, as though he himself had _named_ her, called her into being.

“Yes, I hear you,” Livia said.

“I need you to find and free me, so that I may free you in return.” And then he was gone.

“That was him,” said Lyris. “I can’t believe it.” Her breath made a soft white cloud in the air, had been doing so each time she spoke, and something about that rang a faint alarm bell in the back of Livia’s mind. “I have no idea who you are,” Lyris said, gazing at Livia in wonder, “but if the Prophet would spend such effort to reach you, even for a moment – he must believe you can help us.”

She couldn’t bear to ask aloud, _But who am I?_ so instead, she asked, “Who is he? How does he know my name?”

“He knows a lot of things, including how to get us back to Tamriel. In fact, I think he’s the only one who can.”

_Tamriel_. Home – she knew it the moment she heard the word. But Tamriel wasn’t a nation, or a city… it was _the world_. Where were they now, if not the world? The answer teased at her mind for a moment, then escaped.

“If we keep going,” Lyris said, pointing toward the door that the Prophet had briefly obscured, “we’ll get to the Towers of Eyes. The Prophet told me, before we got captured, that the sentinels there are linked. If we can destroy one, it will blind the others and buy us some time to find the cell where he’s being held.”

“He’s a prisoner here too?”

Lyris was already starting to turn away. Livia caught her by the wrist, and the Nord flinched slightly, looking down at Livia’s hand as though something about it surprised her.

“Please,” Livia said, “before we go any further, I need you to tell me where we are, and why.”

“You don’t remember?” Lyris said. Something – some hope or spark – seemed to drain from her face, leaving a quiet horror. “Arkay’s beard! I thought you were –” She didn’t finish. Instead she did something odd: reached out to lay one of her large, callused hands on Livia’s chest. She left it there. 

Livia stood numbly, waiting for something to happen: a spell, a blessing? But nothing happened. 

Nothing at all. Livia belatedly understood the reason for Lyris’s horror.

“My heart,” Livia said. “It’s not beating.” Her words made no cloud in the air, she now noticed. She hadn’t even realized the air around them was cold.

“I’m so sorry,” Lyris said, removing her hand. “Mannimarco’s Worm Cult sacrificed you to Molag Bal, back on Tamriel. Like everyone here but me and the Prophet, you're… dead.”

“Molag Bal…” The name rang a vague bell, but she couldn’t quite place it. 

“The Daedric Prince of Brutality and Domination. You’re one of his slaves now, his Soul Shriven, they call you. A kind of echo you remember from life. You have no soul, and your body is… well it’s not quite real. But – you don’t look like most of them. You look so _normal_. I thought you were alive; that’s why I asked you to come with me. Even if I _could_ get you out of here…” She trailed off.

“Where is ‘here’ exactly?” Livia looked around. They seemed to be in a cave tunnel littered with iron cages and other cruel-looking metallic constructs. Everything around them shaded from blue to black. Aside from Lyris’s flaxen hair and her fair skin, which was ruddy with exertion, there was no other color to be found but that chill and awful blue.

Livia lifted her hand in front of her eyes and saw, to her relief, that it was not blue, or corpse gray. It was darker than Lyris’s, a rich olive, but it was _correct_. She recognized it when she saw it.

“We’re in Coldharbour,” Lyris answered. “Molag Bal’s plane of Oblivion. The Prophet and I came here… the regular way. We weren’t sacrifices; we just… walked in, through a portal from Tamriel. And immediately got captured, because I’m an idiot. But the Soul Shriven are rebelling now, and everything’s in chaos, so I was able to get out to look for him.”

“The Prophet said he needed _me_ to free him. He called me by name.”

“I don’t take that lightly,” said Lyris. “Nor the fact that you look different from most of them. There’s something special about you.” She hesitated, then grabbed Livia’s wrist and tugged. “Come on, let’s go. Maybe he’ll have answers.”

The door led them into a great forge, the orange fires inside its massive furnaces the only break in the dreary monochrome. Curved, wicked black spikes taller than a man adorned all corners of the room for no obvious purpose other than to create an atmosphere of cruelty. 

The burly daedric forge-master was fighting a gray, shriveled husk of a man. The man fought savagely, but the daedra simply hefted him by the throat and tossed him onto one of the spikes, impaling him. The man continued to struggle, legs dangling.

Lyris and Livia advanced as one to flank the forge-master and slay him; then Livia moved swiftly to his victim. He was still on the spike, making a low hissing sound as though of pain. He was up too high for her to lift him off.

The Prophet’s voice sounded in Livia’s ears as though inside her own mind. _The God of Brutality knows of your escape – hurry._

“Leave him,” said Lyris, though it wasn’t clear if she had heard the Prophet herself. “He’s already a corpse, and we need to get to the Towers of Eyes.” She ran for the door on the far side, and after a moment’s hesitation Livia followed. Together they heaved it open, and a gust of wind stirred their hair. Lyris shivered, but Livia felt nothing.

They were outside now in a manner of speaking, at the top of a broad staircase that led to a vast, walled, sloping courtyard full of meandering, craggy paths. Pale silvery flakes – snow, or ash, Livia couldn’t tell – sifted down from a gloomy blue-black sky, and below them a glowing blue stream cut the lower portion of the yard in two. Great clanking black machines worked mindlessly everywhere as though of their own accord, and the high walls of the courtyard and the fortress behind them were topped with fanglike battlements made of the same material as the machines. An inky horizon of sharp mountain peaks was faintly visible through the night-blue haze of the sky. 

Scattered all throughout the dark stony ground before them, shuffling between the pounding, shrieking machines, were chained Soul Shriven. Some were bound to each other in lines. They were almost without exception gray and lifeless husks: men, elves, beast-races, all similarly bereft of life and color. They carried out their endless tasks with an aura of utter despair.

So stunned was Livia by the sight that she did not notice the man sitting nearly at her feet until he rose and looked at her in astonishment.

_Dunmer_, she thought when she saw him. A dark elf. Like her, he was dressed in prisoners’ rags, irons at his wrists and ankles, and like her, he looked… normal. His skin was gray, a deep charcoal-gray, but that wasn’t unusual for a Dunmer, nor was his coarse jet-black hair. His eyes were a particularly vivid ruby-red, and they were startled, assessing, _alive_.

“Two more with high anuic valences…” he murmured to himself. His posh accent set her teeth on edge. She’d met Dunmer before, somewhere, enough of them to have expectations. Those expectations included a profound mistrust. “This can’t be coincidence,” he went on muttering. “Something is happening in the Mundus, some deeply existential threat – “

“Are you speaking Tamrielic?” said Lyris dryly. “Because some of the words sound like you are.”

“You speak!” said the Dunmer.

“So do I,” said Livia.

“Remarkable!” he said, looking between them. “Perfect facsimiles of life.”

“She _is_ alive,” said Livia. “I’m not, though. Just a ‘facsimile’ apparently. She’s Lyris, I’m Livia. Who are you?”

“My apologies.” He gave them a slight bow. “Drevas Gilvayn, formerly of House Indoril. Also dead. But, as you can see, I’ve kept something close to my natural form. This keeps happening, and it should be a miracle. I was the first, I think, but I’ve seen at least half a dozen more like this since. Something odd is happening in the Mundus, that so many souls with such astronomically high anuic valences should show up here within such a relatively short span.”

“A rebellion is happening, for one,” said Lyris. “It distracted my guards long enough for me to escape, so we’re escaping. Want to come with us?”

“Er… could you give me a moment to find and confer with—"

“There’s no time,” said Lyris. “Come, or stay. We’ve got to get to one of those Sentinels and blind it to buy us time before Molag Bal sends reinforcements to put down the rebellion.” She started off into the courtyard, and Livia followed.

“An interesting plan,” said Drevas, trailing behind them. “Buying you time for… what exactly? You _do _know there’s nowhere in Coldharbour you can run that Molag Bal can’t find you. If there were such a place, believe me, I’d be there already.”

“That’s why we’re not running to Coldharbour,” said Lyris. “I know a blind old man who knows the way back to Tamriel. If you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll take you along.”

Drevas stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, then hurried to catch up. “All right,” he said, sounding shaken for the first time. But he recovered his composure quickly; when he spoke again he sounded as arrogant as ever. “If you see anyone else who doesn’t look like a desiccated corpse, perhaps we could extend them an invitation as well? In particular I’m looking for a Breton gentleman, long brown hair, pasty? Answers to Etienne.”

“If we trip over him on the way,” said Lyris. “But my main priority is freeing the Prophet. It’s very important he return to Tamriel as soon as possible.”

Drevas lapsed into a thoughtful silence, but continued to follow. Livia kept one eye on him, uncomfortable with him at her back. 

A daedric guard appeared when they rounded a jagged black rock formation; Livia and Lyris dispatched it with no help whatsoever from the elf, who stood and watched with an expression of genteel horror.

“I see he’s going to be useful,” Lyris scoffed.

“I know more about this place than both of you put together,” he countered. “What I don’t know, though, is who started this rebellion. Don’t you think they’d want to be in on this little escape plan of yours?”

“We don’t have time to find them,” Lyris said irritably.

“As luck would ‘ave it,” said a new voice from above and behind them, “she found you.”

Perched on top of the jagged rock they’d just passed was yet another prisoner, a small, feral-looking elf with wild, coarse red hair and a coppery tinge to her skin. She held a bow in her hands, an arrow nocked and trained right at Lyris.

_Bosmer_. A wood elf. A savage. That was all Livia remembered of them. Savages, and possibly… cannibals?

“Found a way out, eh, blondie?” she said in her rough accent. “And you were just gonna leave me ‘ere, when I’m the one wot freed ya?”

Lyris raised her hands slowly. “I had no idea,” she said. “I’m grateful to you.”

“Didn’t exactly mean to start a rebellion,” she admitted, lowering her weapon and replacing the arrow in her quiver. She hopped down from the rock, landing lightly. “I’m Fayawen. Showed up ‘ere a few days ago, I ‘fink. Figured out ‘ow to get me cell unlocked, and then I just started unlockin’ all the others I found. Everyfing kinda snowballed from there, I guess.”

“Come with us, Fayawen,” said Livia. “We’re going to escape back to Tamriel.”

“We en’t in Tamriel now? Where the bloody Oblivion are we then?”

“Bloody Oblivion,” Drevas said dryly. “Coldharbour, to be exact.”

“_Yffre’s hairy feet_,” Fayawen breathed.

Drevas, glanced skyward briefly. “If it’s a sentinel we want,” he said, “follow me.” He took off toward a steep, winding rocky path. Lyris shrugged at Livia and Fayawen, then followed. Livia trailed behind, and the little wood elf fell in behind her.

“So I’m dead then?” said Fayawen. “Funny, don’t remember that bit.”

“I don’t remember anything at all,” said Livia. “Didn’t even remember my own name until the old man said it.”

“I remember my life perfectly well,” said Fayawen. “Just not ‘ow it ended.”

“The amount of memory loss seems to vary,” said Drevas. “But one interesting thing I’ve noticed is that the souls who show up here looking like we do… recently the dremora have started caging them instead of putting them to work. I think they’ve learned that we’re… dangerous somehow. That we hold on to some fragment of independent will, and that we’re especially dangerous when we confer with others like us.”

“So why keep us at all?” said Livia.

“I’m not certain,” said Drevas. “Perhaps it makes our souls even more useful, for whatever purpose Molag Bal holds them. Or possibly he doesn’t know we’re different until we’re already here, and then he has no real way to dispose of us. Nothing _dies_ in Oblivion, you see. All the dremora you’ve been slaughtering in your rebellion? They’ll just reform eventually. So would we, if we died here. You’re made of Oblivion stuff now, not Mundus stuff. Well, except Lyris. Let’s try not to get Lyris killed, shall we?”

Fayawen, unlike Drevas, was actually helpful when they encountered more of the manlike horned daedra – _dremora_, Drevas had called them – on their way up the twisting rocky path. To make matters more lively they were intermittently attacked by feral Soul Shriven, as well as another type of daedra: bipedal lizardlike creatures with neck crests and long wicked tails that Drevas called _clannfear_. At last they reached the apex of the hill, and there, suspended in a great stony framework, was what looked like a giant eyeball.

“That seems to fit the description of a ‘sentinel,’” Livia observed.

“Suddenly this seems like a bad plan,” said Lyris. “How do we keep a giant eyeball from seeing us?”

“I’m good at bein’ stealfy,” said Fayawen. “Wish it’d turn around juuuust a little, though…”

“I can help with that,” said Drevas. Before Livia could ask how, he sauntered right up to the crest of the hill, as though he were off to meet a friend behind the sentinel. The sentinel’s pupil flared in shock, and it zeroed in on his movement, tracking him as he moved nonchalantly past.

Fayawen _poured_ across the ground as soon as the sentinel was distracted, and once she was in range, she drew back her bowstring.

_Thwack!_ One shot, and the fragile thing exploded in a burst of shadowy blackness.

“It will reform too,” said Drevas, doubling back at a run. “Let’s hurry.”

“The Prophet is speaking to me now,” said Lyris vaguely as she took off. “Telling me how to find the door to his cell.” They fell in behind her as she sprinted across the courtyard, attracting a small trail of feral Soul Shriven and dremora along the way that Livia and Fayawen had to help her dispatch when she came to a sudden stop in front of a huge and cruelly intricate door. The door burst into blue flames as they approached.

_You will never escape Coldharbour_, said a deep voice that reverberated through Livia’s bones, chilling her.

“Warded!” Lyris cried in frustration, hewing madly at their new followers with her battle-axe. Once again from sheer habit, from a training long forgotten, Livia flanked them and bashed at them from behind with mace and shield, leaving Fayawen room to fill them full of arrows. Drevas, as always, observed and said nothing.

When the battle was over, Lyris bent over for a moment with her hands on her thighs, catching her breath and trying to think. Livia noticed that two -- no, three -- of the desiccated Soul-Shriven following them hadn’t attacked but were hanging back, watching.

“Hello,” she said to them. They just stared back at her, the power of speech lost to them.

“Cadwell might know another way to the place you seek,” Drevas suggested to Lyris. If he noticed their new following, he didn’t say anything. Fayawen was watching them though, hands still on her bow.

“Who’s Cadwell?” Livia asked.

“The oldest of the Soul Shriven. Usually, the gray ones turn completely feral after a year or three, good for little other than creating obstacles to escape. But dear Cadwell has been here longer than I, and because he was mad as a hatter before he left Tamriel, there’s nothing here that can perturb him. He sees only what he wishes to see. He’s usually at a little camp down by the river. Follow me.”

Everything in Livia’s gut _screamed_ at her not to trust Drevas, but she didn’t remember _why_. And how could she trust her own judgment? In life, her intuition had apparently gotten her sacrificed to a Daedric Prince. And so she followed him.

Cadwell appeared to be what was left of an old Breton gentleman with a smart goatee. His visage was grey and shriveled, his eyes dead, but his manner sprightly as he sat strumming a lute. He wore a cooking pot sideways on his head in lieu of a hat, and sang a little song that bore no relation whatsoever to the chords he plucked from the lute’s strings.

_One fine day in the middle of the night,_  
_Two dead kings got up to fight!_  
_ Back to back they faced each other,_  
_ Drew their bows and stabbed themselves!_

His audience consisted of a dozen or so dead-eyed Soul Shriven and two shackled women who looked as normal as could be: a plump blond Nord considerably shorter than Lyris, and a tall, golden doll of a woman Livia recognized as _Altmer_: a high elf. They both looked dazed, disoriented.

“Them’s two of wot I freed!” Fayawen said, pointing to them. “And ‘ere they are, just sittin’ about? Typical. Probably waitin’ for their _lady’s maids. _Wonder where that green-eyed Redguard went? That one was already freein’ ‘erself when I got to ‘er. Bet you _she_ isn’t sittin’ around takin’ in a show.”

“Cadwell?” Lyris said, experimentally addressing the old man.

He broke off his lute-playing with a discordant twang. “_Sir_ Cadwell,” he corrected. “A pleasure, my fair lady. And Drevas! Good to see you old chum! How are you, then? Where’s your little friend?”

“No time for that,” Drevas said irritably. “We are trying to free a… blind old man, apparently.”

“The Prophet,” clarified Lyris. “Do you know of him?”

“Oh, yes, yes, he’s a very _special_ guest, isn’t he. He’s got his own _suite_, quite posh.”

“Who _is_ the Prophet, exactly?” Livia asked them. As Lyris hesitated in thought, Cadwell answered.

“An elderly Imperial gentleman,” he said.

_Imperial_. That’s what Livia was, she remembered. An Imperial, from the heart of Tamriel. The idea filled her with pride; it had mattered to her, for some reason. Was that why the Prophet spoke to her? Because they had that in common? 

“He can get us back to Tamriel,” said Lyris. “You could come with us, if you like, Sir Cadwell.”

“Back to Tamriel?” said Cadwell incredulously. “Tish-tosh. If there were a way back, don’t you think I’d have found it after all this time? But no harm in a healthy uprising now and again, I suppose. You children have fun.”

“The door to the Prophet’s cell is warded.” Lyris pointed the way they’d come. “So that’s kind of spoiled our plans for the moment.”

“Oh, well, you’ll have to take the back way then I suppose. More interesting, anyhow. Full of fire and lively corpses; you’ll adore it. Just follow that little stream, and you’ll find the door to the undercroft at the water’s end. Somewhere in there should be a ladder that will take you right up to the old man’s fancy quarters. Do give him my best!”

Lyris turned to look at Drevas. 

He just shrugged. “It sounds plausible,” he said. “I know of the undercroft, but I’ve never been in there. As he says, it’s dangerous.”

“Interesting!” Cadwell corrected brightly.

“All right,” said Lyris. “Thanks, Cadwell. You coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cadwell. “The old back’s a bit dodgy today. But tell you what, I’ll send more people your way if I see any rebellious-looking sorts. I do love a good exodus.”

So did his audience, apparently, because every single one of them trailed after Lyris and Livia as they started off. If Cadwell even noticed their departure he didn’t object; he simply picked up his tuneless singing and lute-playing where he’d left off.

“What’s your name, luv?” said Fayawen to the Altmer as they began following the stream’s edge. The Altmer just stared blankly ahead, saying nothing. Livia noticed an ugly horizontal scar across her throat; maybe she couldn’t talk at all. The Nord woman was likewise quiet, but she did patch people up during their fights with daedra, her hands glowing gently. She seemed to weave healing magic more from instinct than anything; she scarcely seemed aware of her surroundings when they weren’t in immediate mortal danger.

At the stream end, Livia could see a tunnel entrance, but could not see very far inside it. It looked like a perfect place for an ambush. She held up a hand, and Lyris stopped. Everyone behind them followed suit.

“Fayawen,” she said, “can you scout up ahead, tell me what you see in that tunnel?”

“Right-O,” said Fayawen, and crept forward, soundless, along the edge of the water.

Along the stream, something grew, something that looked like wildflowers from the corner of the eye. A closer look revealed that at the end of each stem weren’t blossoms, but dimly glowing blue spheres. Pretty somehow, still, but also faintly disturbing, as they reminded one of eyes on long stalks. 

_There’s nowhere in Coldharbour that Molag Bal can’t find you_, Drevas had said.

Fayawen came strolling back, bow in hand but looking relaxed. “Nuffing dangerous,” she said. “Just a man, in shackles like us. Said he wants to talk to Drevas.”

“Etienne,” Drevas said. Was it Livia’s imagination, or was there a frisson of dread in his voice?

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“It might be better if you wait here,” said Drevas. “He asked only for me; it might spook him to see a stranger, until I explain. He’s – this place has taken its toll on him.”

“I’m coming with you,” Livia said again, more firmly.

“Me too,” said Fayawen.

Livia turned to Lyris. “Can you stay here and guard our, uh, followers until we get back?”

Lyris looked behind them at the stragglers. A few more had joined them somehow in the interim, including a dark-scaled Argonian who looked every bit as alive as Drevas and the women, and the lot of them stood passively waiting for instructions. They all looked lost, but somehow hopeful, expectant. Lyris nodded grimly at Livia.

“Let’s go,” Livia said. Drevas and Fayawen fell in behind her.

The tunnel, discouragingly full of skeletons, led to a gate. Sure enough, a pale Breton man stood in front of it, shackled and dressed in rags. His long, thick hair half obscured his face as he lifted his head to look at the three of them. There was a sword in his hand, hanging slack.

“What’s this?” he said. His accent sounded almost elven. And again, “What’s this, Drevas?”

“This is Fayawen,” Drevas said quietly. “She started the rebellion. And Livia here is helping lead them.”

_Them._ Not _us_.

“I _knew_ it!” Livia drew her mace, adjusting her stance.

“Uhhhh wot’s going on?” said Fayawen, looking confused but readying her bow anyhow.

“Please relax,” said Drevas. To his credit, he looked slightly pained. “This doesn’t have to be a fight. If you return to your cells quietly before reinforcements arrive, we can skip the part where you die painfully and then slowly reform from the azure plasm.”

“I’m pretty sure we can take the both of you,” said Livia. “You’re not even armed.”

“Aren’t I, though?” said Drevas, and lifted his hands. One of the skeletons in the tunnel clambered to its feet, clutching the wickedly curved blade it had died with.

_Necromancer._ Livia’s skin crawled with absolute loathing.

Etienne made a gesture as well, and there was a sudden flare of violet light. A clannfear appeared at his side, hissing menacingly.

“That one’s got a sword _and_ a daedra?” Fayawen said in a high-pitched, panicky tone. “Not fair!”

“There are more of us just outside,” Livia warned.

“You won’t reach them,” said Etienne. And then, unaccountably, “I’m sorry.” He tipped his head, and his hair fell away from his eyes. They were as blue as the stream in the courtyard.

“Can we talk this over?” said Drevas. “Please. Etienne and I have been here for a very long time. Unlike you, we suffered under the lash. We fought, too. Until we learned it was pointless. We’re _dead_, Livia.”

“Lyris isn’t!”

“Then she doesn’t belong here, and Molag Bal with deal with her. But you… what do you think will happen, if you do manage to get out of here? Molag Bal still has your soul. Your real body, back home, has likely been mourned and buried. Even if it’s possible, how do you think people will respond if you go home now? Much as you did to my companion, here, I expect.” He gestured to the skeleton. “You are a soulless abomination. You have no place in Tamriel. But if you _listen_ to me, and to Etienne, we can teach you a way to survive here, to avoid the lash, to have free run of this place, at least.”

“By rattin’ out other prisoners?” Fayawen spat.

“Regrettably, that is part of it,” said Drevas.

“Almost the whole of it, really,” chimed in Etienne. “Nasty business, but what about this place isn’t?”

“Come now,” said Drevas, spreading his hands entreatingly toward Livia and Fayawen, his voice like velvet. “Does this have to be a fight?”

Livia sheathed her weapon. “It doesn’t have to be,” she said, “but I’ve heard you out, so now it’s your turn to hear _me_ out.”

Drevas snapped his fingers, and the skeleton collapsed back to the ground. Etienne dismissed the clannfear, and folded his arms, watching her skeptically.

“We’re not fightin’ then?” said Fayawen. “Wot’s goin’ on now? Did we just surrender? Because I’m bloody well not—”

“Let me speak,” said Livia. 

Fayawen fell silent, but watched her with sullen eyes. 

“Drevas,” Livia said. “Etienne. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, being here so long. A place like this, it is _designed_ to make you despair. It’s gotten into your _bones_ by now. Molag Bal is the lord of domination, and so of course he’s dominated you utterly. But I’m new here; he hasn’t gotten to me yet. Lyris is _alive_. And the Prophet, the man in that cell? He can get us _all_ back to Tamriel.”

“To what end?” said Drevas. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you,” said Livia. “And I understand that hope is something that’s been lost to you. That’s not your fault. It’s Molag Bal’s fault, and the fault of whoever killed you and brought you here. But no one thought it was possible even to _leave_ here, and the Prophet knows a way, apparently. All we have to do is free him. And if he can get out of this place, maybe he can find our souls. Maybe he can return us to the way we were. Don’t you two, of all people, understand? _Everything_ seems impossible, until someone finds a way to do it. You’re both mages, surely you learned that in your studies? We don’t have to fight – not because I ever plan to surrender and let you lead me back to a cell – but because I’m inviting you to come with us. You too, Etienne. Drevas, what wouldn’t you give to see Tamriel again, if only for one moment? To see -- ” 

She struggled, searched her memory -- the name was on the tip of her tongue. The land of the Dunmer, volcanic and brutally beautiful.

“Morrowind,” she said.

The word was like an incantation, a talisman. She saw it spark something in his eyes, saw his fine-boned, elegant face suddenly draw tight with the pain of longing. The sort of pain that could only be kindled by hope.

“Morrowind,” he echoed.

“Yes,” Livia said softly. “Let me get you there.”

“Valenwood,” said Fayawen behind her. Softly, fiercely.

“Cyrodiil,” Livia said. But something nagged at her, a faint memory – Cyrodiil was _Home_; the word pulsed through her very veins, but it wasn’t her home, not anymore. Why? The memory was gone.

“Do you truly believe her?” Drevas said roughly. “Lyris? You don’t think she’s mad?”

“I trust the living more than I trust anyone without a soul,” she said. “Including myself. She’s the only thing here that’s _real_. So yes, I believe her, and I follow her.”

Drevas turned to Etienne. “What if we--?”

“No,” Etienne said, wild-eyed. “No, we’ll end up back under the lash. It’s just another slave rebellion, like all the others. Don’t do this. Don’t join them. You’re smarter than this.”

“Etienne,” Drevas said, in a gentler tone than she’d yet heard him use. “If there’s a chance to end this suffering, to see Tamriel again, even for a _moment_, we have to try. I want this for you, too. Remember High Rock? You told me of it, at the beginning. Something about… rain, and gray stone? Do you remember rain, Etienne?”

Etienne closed his eyes.

“After all we’ve been through,” Drevas persisted, “we deserve a _chance_, don’t we?”

Etienne looked at Drevas bleakly for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped, and his hair fell back to hide his face. “_You _deserve a chance,” he said. “I won’t stop you. But this is where I belong now.”

“Etienne,” said Drevas, and reached toward him, but the Breton just let out a pained sound and fled.

“Let him go,” said Livia. “At least we saved ourselves a fight.”

Fayawen trained an arrow on Etienne’s back. “For all we know, ‘e’s runnin’ for ‘elp.” 

“We should hurry, then,” said Livia. “But leave the poor wretch.”

“You may regret it,” Drevas said grimly. “Striking him down might buy us time while he reforms.”

“He’s been through enough,” said Livia. “The moment I start being cruel when I don’t have to be, that’s the moment Molag Bal starts to control me. I’ll fight that bastard every step of the way.”

They collected the others, or rather, collected Lyris, after whom the others trailed like ducklings. There was another “lively” looking one with them now: a plump, spotted catlike woman with sweet, tearful blue eyes. _Khajiit_, Livia remembered, though she’d rarely seen one in person. Fayawen immediately adopted the newcomer, linking arms with her and petting her fur. The Khajiit purred softly, seeming comforted.

The gate to the undercroft was locked, but Fayawen made quick work of it with a slender tool she carried, her new Khajiit friend watching her with mute admiration all the while. Once the Bosmer had swung the creaky gate wide, she held it for Lyris and the growing army of voiceless Soul Shriven, then left it standing open behind them. 

“In case Cadwell sends any other rebels to follow us,” she explained when Livia frowned back at her.

“What about Etienne, and the reinforcements he’ll no doubt bring?” Livia protested.

“They’d likely get in anyway,” said Fayawen. “But if this is real, if we’re really gettin’ out? We ‘ave to give as many others a chance as we can.”

Livia nodded. “Understood,” she said. “Seems Molag Bal hasn’t killed your spirit yet, either. Hold onto that.”

The undercroft, as Cadwell had warned, was a mess of corpses both inert and animated, many switching from one to the other at a moment’s notice. But with Drevas now invested in the fighting, and the new Khajiit surprisingly hurling the occasional fireball, they managed to get to the ladder Cadwell had mentioned on the far side with barely a scratch.

“We shouldn’t all go,” said Lyris. “I’ve no idea what’s up there, and we’re forced to go single file at any rate. The Prophet specifically addressed Livia, so she should come with me. The rest of you hang back and wait for word.”

Livia nodded agreement and turned to the others. “If you don’t hear from us in a little while, assume it’s a trap, and either leave the way you came, or try and mount a rescue mission blind. Your choice.”

Up the ladder, and through a door, Lyris and Livia found themselves in a grand chamber with a circular seal on the floor depicting the skull-like visage of Molag Bal: great curving horns, a snarling mouth full of sharp fangs. All up and along the walls were glowing blue runes that spoke of vast arcane power. Through the tremendous open doorway ahead of them, Livia could see into another chamber, even larger. At the center of that cavernous chamber was a shadowy sphere that roiled with dark energy. Suspended inside the sphere: the figure of a robed man, holding a staff.

Slowly, Lyris walked through the doorway, her eyes fixed on the imprisoned Prophet. Her look was distant; Livia had the feeling the Prophet was speaking to her directly. She followed in Lyris’s footsteps, alert for danger. None materialized.

“Should we send for the others?” Livia asked softly.

Lyris turned to Livia, her face grim. “In a moment,” she said. “But maybe they shouldn’t see what’s about to happen. They’ve been following me, and… I don’t want to upset them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s only one way to get the Prophet out of that cell,” she said. “It has to hold a living soul, so someone alive has to take his place.”

“You don’t mean—"

“I don’t see anyone else here with a beating heart here, do you?” She smiled grimly.

“Lyris, no. What’s the point of all you went through to escape, if you’re just going to walk into another cell?”

“The important thing was to get the Prophet out,” she says. “I’m just a warrior; I’m expendable. But he’s studied the Elder Scrolls; he’s the key to saving our world. Livia… Molag Bal has a plan, and if he isn’t stopped he’ll destroy everyone and everything we’ve ever loved.”

Livia remembered tears. The idea of them, at any rate. She felt as though some part of her might have shed them in this moment, from gratitude, or from grief, but that part of her seemed distant, caged. Instead she stared at Lyris, stony-faced.

“The Prophet will know where to go,” Lyris said, “but he’ll need your eyes and your protection. This is what he wanted you for. He can’t get out on his own, and somehow he trusted you to lead him.”

“I won’t let him down.”

“Once you’ve freed him, you can collect the others, and they can follow you out. I hope he can save all of you.”

Lyris stepped into the circle that stood before the Prophet’s spherical prison. Dark pinions burst from the floor: two hovering diamond-shaped constructs of delicately wrought metal with shadowy spheres inside them. Two dremora appeared to defend them. As Livia struck each of the dremora down, one of the pinions opened vertically and the sphere inside it began to glow, each of them in turn producing a chain of light that seized Lyris and held her in place.

Livia watched for a moment, then hesitantly approached one of the glowing pinions, touching it. It closed again with a sharp sound. She approached the second and closed it as well, and a great rumbling filled the chamber. It was as though a tunnel of invisible arcane energy opened up between Lyris and the prison-sphere. Livia could feel it building, building… and then suddenly the two prisoners rushed past one another in a burst of light, exchanging places.

The old man landed on his knees, half-collapsed in the center of the circle on the floor. Livia rushed to his side.

“Freedom!” he gasped. “We must be swift, if I am to make use of it.” Slowly he stood, slouching, exhausted, and turned his blank eyes toward Livia, leaning on his staff. “Vestige of Livia,” he said, almost tenderly. “Thank the Divines you are safe. There is that, at least.”

“Prophet,” she said. “Do we… know each other?”

He studied her for a moment. “Not in the conventional sense,” he said. “But we can speak more of that later. We must honor Lyris’s sacrifice by escaping Coldharbour as she intended. Once we are safe, we will find a way to rescue her together, Vestige.”

“Why do you call me that?” Livia asked. 

“You are a shadow of your former self. The Elder Scrolls told me of your coming – that a hollow vestige would be the key to Nirn’s resistance -- but I confess that I did not expect quite _this_ level of irony. Quickly now,” he said then, straightening. “We must make haste to the Anchor.”

“What is that?” 

“The Anchors are Molag Bal’s terrible machines of domination. Their chains are forged to hold Nirn in their grip, drawing it towards Coldharbour. I can use one of these Anchors to return you to Tamriel, but you must lead me to it.”

“There are others,” Livia said. “Other Soul Shriven who want to escape, who followed us.”

The Prophet’s brows rose slowly toward his hairline. “Already, a leader and rescuer,” he murmured. “As you wish, then. Not all will survive the transition, but I know a way to bring you and the ones like you out safely. Collect them, and then let us go up the stairs quickly. We must get to the Anchor mooring.”

“Stay where you are,” said Livia. “I’ll return right away.”

She bolted to the ladder and descended it, finding Fayawen and Drevas waiting for her with the others.

“It’s safe,” she said. “Come with us, and hurry.”

“Where’s Lyris?” asked Fayawen.

“She’s… upstairs with the Prophet. I’ve just freed him. We have to get to something called an Anchor; he thinks he can use it to return us to Tamriel.”

“Of course!” said Drevas, his eyes lighting with interest. “But how does he intend to—never mind, let’s go.”

“Can we come with you?” said a faint voice farther down the tunnel.

Livia stepped to peer around Lyris’s bulk and saw Etienne, half hiding behind a brown-skinned, green-eyed woman as though he expected to be attacked.

“Oh, there’s that Redguard!” Fayawen said cheerily. “I ‘ad a feelin’ she’d find ‘er way to us. Clever, that one. Piss-poor choice of company, though.”

“They’re coming,” said Etienne. “A whole army, led by dremora Kynvals. No, I didn’t summon them. It was only a matter of time. We need to go now, or not at all. There are more prisoners behind us; Cadwell is trying to convince them to follow.”

“Whoever wants to follow, follow,” said Livia. “Yes, even you, Etienne.” And she climbed the ladder.

The Prophet remained safe and sound where she’d left him. Taking him by the arm, she led him as quickly as possible around the prison-sphere and behind it, through a long tunnel to another door.

Behind that door was the Anchor.

The sight of it filled Livia with terror and awe. Great spiked chains as wide as a man reached up, up, up, impossibly high, disappearing into the blue-black sky on either side of a blinding, brilliant portal. Beneath the portal descended a vertical stack of metal rings held together with slimmer chains, their spikes reaching inward to make each ring look like a gaping, predatory maw.

The colossal image of Molag Bal rose up before the Anchor, licked with shadowy flame. A projection only, like the one she had seen of the Prophet, but even so, it was enough to freeze her to her marrow.

_The mortal thinks it can defy me. _ The voice was _inside_ her, reverberating deeply through not her ears but her very bones._ Futile. Soon your world will be in my chains._

A massive bone construct rose up out of the ground to menace them. Livia stood her ground, even as Fayawen sprinted for the high ground, bow at the ready, and Drevas summoned a bony companion of his own. Etienne faced down the huge construct with his clannfear and his sword; the scaly Argonian and green-eyed Redguard joined the fray as well, wielding weapons they must have found in the undercroft. Even the haughty Altmer with the scar across her throat raised her hands as though in a trance, lightning crackling around her.

Livia was their shield – the frail mages, the tiny Bosmer, the cowering vestiges who dared not fight at all. This was her role, her destiny. Lyris was gone, but Livia would stand for all of them in her place. Soul or no soul, she did not belong to Molag Bal. She was a warrior, a guardian of Cyrodiil. Of the Empire.

_Dragonguard_. 

The word came to her from nowhere. Although she wasn’t sure of its exact meaning, it stirred something in her. Almost involuntarily, she summoned something from deep inside herself, and a lash of vermillion light appeared, cracking like a whip in the air as it set the bones aflame.

_Yes_. _Dragon-fire, hers to command_. Some distant part of her was exhilarated; she noted the feeling as she might remember a long-ago dream.

Together, they brought the construct to its knees, and under their blows it collapsed in a shower of bones. From around her, from a dozen or more dead throats, rose a hoarse roar of rage, of hope, of bittersweet victory.

“Do you see the Dark Anchor’s portal?” the Prophet said. “I will prepare a spell to lift us to it. But first, you must reattune yourself to Nirn.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nirn, the Mundus. The plane from which we came.” He thumped his staff gently on the ground for emphasis. “You are made of the stuff of Oblivion now, but although Molag Bal holds your soul, that soul is somehow so strong, so _vital_, that you remember every detail of the form it once wore. It is as though you carry an imprint of that soul with you still, which allowed you to remake your body to virtual perfection from the stuff of Oblivion. But now we must attune your physical form to Nirn, instead, if you wish to return there. You must be a living woman once again.”

“You can… return my soul to me?”

Grimly, the Prophet shook his head. “I cannot. But it has not been destroyed, either, which means that one day, if we can invade the part of Coldharbour where it is held, we might return it to you. For now, I shall help you create a form that will more easily welcome that soul and maintain a connection to it. A form that will abide by the laws of Nirn – you will eat, and sleep, and bleed. Without your soul, there may still be… differences, I’m afraid. But most will not detect them. You should be safe, if you are careful.”

“How do we do this?”

“I will summon an Aetherial shard,” he said. “These objects are mysterious even to the greatest sages, though some link them to Lorkhan, the missing god of creation.” He turned to address the entire assembled group. “If your soul is strong enough, you will have only to touch this shard in order to remake yourself as a being of the Mundus.”

Livia turned to look at her new friends. Drevas was staring solemnly up at the portal; he seemed chastened, and said nothing. Fayawen reached over to squeeze Livia’s hand, looking up at her with an excited grin.

“It’s really ‘appenin’!” she cried. “We’re goin’ ‘ome!”

Livia squeezed her hand in return; then Fayawen released her to hug her new Khajiit friend, whose gaze seemed glued to the portal.

“Shard of Aetherius,” intoned the Prophet, lifting his staff, “fall upon us now, and anoint us with your blessing.”

Livia looked up, but the shard did not _fall_ so much as _burst_ into being, a brilliant crystal whose beam of pure white light rose needle-precise to impale the sky. She moved to touch it, and as she did so, she felt its light surround her body, lifting her from her feet. She gasped as her heart stuttered in her chest, then found a rhythm. Blood raced to her extremities; her fingers and toes were briefly on fire with pinpricks of sensation. The chill in the air around her suddenly penetrated the flimsy rags she wore. Then her feet landed again on the cold ground; she was breathless, shaky.

“Great Akatosh,” the Prophet intoned, lifting his staff, “dragon-god of time, I require your strength. Let the way be opened. Let these wandering souls return home. Let the will of Molag Bal be denied!” Suddenly small rocks and motes of dust began to rise from the floor beneath the stacked rings of the Dark Anchor, accelerating and hurtling toward the portal in the sky as though falling.

“Quickly!” said the Prophet. “Make for the portal!”

Heart pounding, Livia rushed into the center of the Anchor and felt herself lifted from the ground like the rest of the debris. Then ground and sky seemed to reverse, and she was falling, falling, headfirst, into the light. It was too fast; she would never survive. She _screamed_.

And fell.

\----

She woke on a cot, alone.

Opening her eyes slowly, she found herself in the hold of a ship. Beneath her the cot rolled only subtly, as though the ship were anchored in port. A candle burned on a nearby table, and someone’s laundry was hung to dry on a rope. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there, but a disturbing dream tugged at her memory.

No, not a dream. It all came crashing back. She sat up, heart racing.

“Drevas?” she whispered. “Fayawen?”

No one answered. She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the cold bite of despair, as though it had followed her from that place. She was alone, and lost, possibly even a prisoner all over again. Why couldn’t she remember?

When she lowered her hands from her face, she saw him. The Prophet. Translucent and glowing, a projection, like the very first glimpse of him she’d seen.

“As I feared,” his voice echoed in her head. “The portal has scattered us all. I am not yet certain where I find myself, but I shall track your progress and try to find my way to you. Fear not; the very spirit of Nirn is with you.”

“Where are Drevas and Fayawen?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Unfortunately, I do not have the connection to them that I do to you. But have faith. You, who could win soulless strangers to your side in Coldharbour, will have no trouble finding allies in Tamriel. In the meantime, I must work to find a way to rescue Lyris.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Yes, when I have more to tell you. Communicating in this way drains me for days; I must use it only sparingly, given the danger that we are all in.”

“What should I do now?”

The Prophet looked thoughtful. “Perhaps there is a reason the Divines have set you on this particular path – find out where you are, and look for others who will help you. But be cautious.”

“Of course,” she said.

And then he was gone.

Livia sat for a moment on the cot. The feeling she’d had when Lyris sacrificed herself came over her again, as though she were reaching for tears, but they were somewhere too far away for her to grasp. She was in Tamriel. She was alive. She knew her name, her place of origin, and something of her own powers. But that was all. She was alone in a world she no longer understood – what was she to do?

_What you always do,_ she told herself. _What you do not remember, but is as much a part of you as battle. What you did in Coldharbour. You will get up, you will pull yourself together, you will take inventory of your resources, and somehow, some way, you will find your way home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this prologue, the story splits into three parallel tales for a while: the tales of Livia, Fayawen, and Drevas. Chapters of the three storylines will be presented in rotating order, but readers may also choose to read all the Daggerfall Covenant chapters sequentially, and/or all the Aldmeri Dominion chapters sequentially, etc., as they prefer.
> 
> This is a perennial work in progress. If it interests you, I recommend you sign up to receive notifications of updates!


	2. Daggerfall Covenant Novella 1: The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Livia Verrus pieces her past together one shard at a time. Meanwhile, helping plan a heist with a disreputable motley crew is her only means off an island run (badly) by pirates.

Morning Star, CE 582

Of all the places for an Oblivion portal to drop Livia Verrus into the sea, Fate had decreed a spot just off the shore of an island crawling with “nautical entrepreneurs.” That was what her new friends liked to call themselves. Livia could think of a few less flattering terms, but one of those “entrepreneurs” had fished her out of the ocean and given her a cot in the hold of a ship, so she’d call the _Spearhead_’s crew whatever they asked her to.

By all reports, Livia had fallen from the sky on the first of Morning Star: New Year’s Day of the year 582. Because it was the tail end of winter, the bustling town of Port Hunding was warm rather than blazing hot. The palm-studded desert island of Stros M’Kai was rumored to be the first place the Redguards had settled when they fled their lost homeland of Yokuda, and their ornate golden architecture gave Port Hunding a certain visual charm. All in all, things could have been much worse. For a woman without a past or a soul, Livia had been getting by well enough so far. She even had a plan, of sorts, to get her off the island.

Phase one of the plan was to make herself a decent sword and a set of armor. It was all going to be a bit shabby, made from cheap iron, but she felt naked fighting without heavy armor, and there was a lot of fighting in her future if the rest of her plan was to work. She knew the basics of smithing, but had no more memory of learning it than she did of learning her much more impressive combat skills. No one was exactly going to get in line to buy the armor pieces Livia slapped together under the watchful, irritable eye of the Breton smith Falbert at Port Hunding’s open marketplace, but she didn’t need to look impressive, just to protect herself.

Phase two of her plan overlapped with phase one a bit, because making armor, even shabby armor, took time. In between sessions at the forge with Falbert, she did what she could to help her rescuer, Captain Kaleen of the _Spearhead_, recover from a mutiny and recruit enough crew to sail to the mainland. For the moment, the half-dozen sailors who remained loyal to the level-headed Redguard woman were every bit as stranded on Stros M’Kai as Livia was.

One would think that recruiting sailors on an island full of them wouldn’t be difficult, but they would be wrong. First of all, the mutiny and its aftermath had left Kaleen short of coin, and Livia wasn’t willing to lie about the pay involved. Second of all, the mutiny had occurred in the first place because Captain Kaleen had refused to raid a Breton galleon loaded with treasures. The Bretons and the Redguards were both part of something called the Daggerfall Covenant, and Captain Kaleen refused to disobey her king Fahara’jad’s restriction against the raiding of Breton ships. Strangely enough, not a lot of pirates were keen on sailing with a captain who entertained such lofty principles, and the surviving mutineers had made certain word got around.

But like Livia, Captain Kaleen had a plan. It was, at least in part, the _same_ plan – a peculiarly lawful heist that would get Kaleen enough coin to buy all the loyal crew she needed to get off of Stros M’Kai. Kaleen was executing this plan with the same methodical patience that Livia showed in her own endeavors.

“We’ve got Jakarn,” the captain announced by way of greeting on Livia’s seventh day on Stros M’Kai. Kaleen sat herself down on a barstool next to Livia at the Screaming Mermaid, where Livia was nursing a glass of the only decent red wine on the entire island. As usual, Kaleen had a decorative cloth wrapped around her long, coarse ropes of dark hair.

“Congratulations,” said Livia. “How many is that, now?”

“Oh,” said Kaleen. “I don’t mean we’ve got him on the crew, I mean we’ve got him as in, ‘Gotcha, you wily rascal.’ He’s painted himself into a nasty little corner. All we have to do is be the ones to get him out of that corner, and then he’ll owe us.”

“Who is Jakarn, again?”

“A thief. The best there is. We’re going to need him if we’re going to pull off this heist. But even the best thief shouldn’t be trying to steal from Bloody Bhosek on his own, and that’s exactly what Jakarn did. The Bloody Fists caught up with him, and now the little scoundrel is rotting in the Grave. The prison beneath Bhosek’s palace, if you’re not familiar.”

“I try not to make a habit of being familiar with prisons,” Livia said dryly.

“I was hoping you’d _get_ familiar with this one. I can’t help but notice you’re good with a sword, and if we’re going to spring Jakarn from there, someone will have to cut her way through more than a few of Bhosek’s Fists.”

“I’m listening.” Frankly, Livia was itching to try out her new blade and breastplate.

“There’s an entrance to the Grave off the river, under the palace. It won’t be locked, because no one in their right mind wants to go _in._”

“Except for me, I suppose.”

“Bring help if you need it, but I think you can handle yourself. Look for a handsome Breton with an ego the size of a galleon. When you find him, make him promise to help me with a heist in exchange for his freedom. He’s a scoundrel and a liar, but once he shakes hands on a deal, he never goes back on it. Are you in?”

“I’m in,” said Livia.

“If we can get him, there are only two more people I need to make this heist work. We’re so close I can taste it.” Kaleen gave Livia a companionable slap on the back and then left her to her drinking.

No sooner had Kaleen vacated the barstool than another dark-skinned Redguard woman, much younger, took her place. Port Hunding was full of Redguards, so normally Livia wouldn't have looked twice, but this woman was unusually short, distractingly top-heavy, and _staring_ at Livia with large, kohl-smudged eyes the startling color of an overcast sky.

“You,” the little woman said, “are the most badass-looking bitch I’ve ever seen, and whatever you’re doing, I am in. What _are_ you doing? Is it me? Please say it’s me.”

Livia choked on her drink. Wiping her mouth and clearing her throat, she turned to gawk at the young woman.

“I’m Tash,” she said, putting out a slim, uncallused hand. Livia did not take it.

“I’m Livia Verrus,” she replied politely, “and I am not really in the mood for conversation, or—” she eyed the woman’s scant attire warily “—whatever else it is you’re offering.”

“I heard you saying something about the Grave, and a heist, and cutting your way through the Bloody Fists, and I’m telling you, I’m _in_. Are you turning away help?”

Livia frowned at her. “What skills do you have? And what is it you expect in return, exactly?”

“I’m a sort of acrobat, and a sailor, and a thief, and… all kinds of things. I’ll bet I’m a better thief than this Jakarn of yours.”

“Just how long were you listening?”

“Literally the entire time.”

“Wonderful.”

“As for what I expect in return… well, I’d settle for a night in your bed, but if that’s not on the menu, I want an even share in whatever this heist is you’re planning, and then safe passage off this sandbox.”

Livia stared at Tash. She was suddenly struck by the very disorienting thought – not a memory exactly but a sort of renewed awareness – that it was, in fact, women with whom she was accustomed to sharing a bed, when she did that sort of thing. But she also was fairly certain it wasn’t a thing she did very often, and certainly not with _this_ kind of woman. Not the kind who would accost her in a tavern clad in gauzy scraps of nothing and demand to be let in on a heist. No, that was not her preferred flavor at all.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Livia. “Meet me at the river entrance to the Grave, and help me free Jakarn. If I’m impressed with your skills, I’ll see about letting you in on Kaleen’s big heist.” This time she did extend a hand, and Tash shook it. “But put some clothes on first,” she added. “You’re not going anywhere dressed like that.”

Tash made a face. “Yes, _Mother_.”

Livia did a double-take; suddenly she realized this was a damned _teenager_ she was talking to, though the makeup had fooled her at first. What had she just gotten herself into?

***

Back at the _Spearhead_, Livia strapped on her crude new breastplate, took up her sharp but ugly sword, and grabbed the shield she’d found on a corpse in the desert. Feeling less naked, she headed off the ship, down the dock and back into town. She turned her steps in the direction of Bhosek’s palace, hoping she’d know the prison entrance when she saw it.

What she saw instead took her by surprise. She’d just reached the northern edge of town when she caught sight of a brilliant needle of light stabbing upward into the heavens on the far side of the river. 

She stopped, looked around. Nearby, a lone guard shaded her eyes and peered searchingly into the desert, her gaze roaming the rocks and sand. Under an awning in the back of a nearby warehouse, a group of pirates were betting on a mudcrab fight. Either none of these people saw the beam of light, or they didn’t find it remarkable enough to comment. 

The light reminded Livia of the shard of Aetherius the Prophet had called down in Coldharbour: the “essence of Nirn” that had given her back her earthly form. Had that only been a week ago? It felt like a surreal, distant nightmare compared to the colors, the scents, the gritty _reality_ of Stros M’Kai.

Burning with curiosity, Livia walked the rest of the way to the river at the edge of town, then crossed it at the shallowest point, approaching the source of the light. When she found it, she was at the same time vindicated and astonished. Another luminous, pale blue shard sat nestled among rocks, its jagged crystalline fingers reaching upward to about mid-thigh when she stood next to it. Just like the one the Prophet had summoned. Did no one find its presence unusual? Why hadn’t the light drawn a hundred greedy treasure-seekers from the town?

The shard emitted a _sound_ as well from this close: a high, clear song. Tentatively Livia reached out, brushed its surface with her fingertips.

The same thing happened as in Coldharbour – blue-white light enveloped her, flooding her mind with a rapturous rush of sensation, but only for a moment. When the power released its grip on her, the shard went dim and quiet. It now looked like nothing more than an unusually large quartz crystal.

But she now _remembered_ something. And there was no doubt in her mind that the shard had somehow _returned_ the memory to her. 

She’d trained to become one of the Emperor’s elite guard. _Dragonguard, _they’d called themselves, but only in whispers. Why? That much she didn’t remember. She’d studied alongside others, competed with them for the honor. She’d learned secrets of earth and fire, some of which she’d been using since her death and rebirth without even remembering where or from whom she’d learned them. 

But now she remembered: a Redguard with a shaved head and a long beard. He’d been strangely gentle for a man with such strength, and she’d admired him. As a mentor and role model, nothing more, but she had craved his notice, had worked hard to please him. She could not remember his name, nor the name of the Emperor she’d trained to serve. But touching that shard had given her the Redguard’s face and his role in her life; it had returned a fragment of the life she’d left behind. She touched it once more, but it was quiet now, inert, as though its purpose had been served. Was this how it appeared to everyone else? Had it only sent out its arcane call to the one who needed it?

After letting her fingertips linger a moment longer, an almost prayerful gesture of gratitude, she left the spent shard of Aetherius behind.

The cave-entrance to the Grave was not far. She heard feet sloshing through water as she approached, and thought perhaps Tash had gotten there first. But no, a platinum-haired Altmer woman stood pacing near the door, soaking the hem of her fancy red gown. She wrung her hands gently, clearly in some sort of distress.

“Do you need help?” Livia asked her.

“Oh, my poor Jakarn!” she said. “If I thought I could get past the traps, I would go in after him!”

Livia stopped short. “You know Jakarn?” she said. “That’s exactly who I came looking for.”

The Altmer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You expect me to believe that _you_ are a rival for his affections?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Livia, putting up a hand as though she could ward off the very idea. “I mean I have a sort of… job for him.”

“A _job_?” the elf said contemptuously. “He doesn’t need a _job_. He’s a _Prince_.”

“A _Prince_?” Kaleen had definitely not mentioned that.

“Yes! Of Westtry! He was going to take me there… he says it’s so green and beautiful… but Headman Bhosek seized him unjustly and threw him in this _pit_!”

“I… see,” said Livia. “Well, as it happens, you’re in luck. I’m a knight, and I’m here to rescue your prince.”

The elf’s entire demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, bless you, Lady Knight!” she said. “I’ll wait here – do hurry, won’t you? He must be suffering terribly.”

If not, Livia was going to make sure he suffered at least a little bit. She didn’t know Jakarn from the Emperor of Tamriel, but given Kaleen’s description, Livia felt pretty damned sure he wasn’t the Prince of anywhere. Who knew, though – it wasn’t as though “prince” and “scoundrel” were _necessarily_ mutually exclusive.

As Kaleen had predicted, the door was unlocked. Inside, the place was dim and reeked of smoke and urine. Having been forewarned about traps, she kept a careful eye out; they were more or less standard in design and easy enough to avoid. Yet another skill she didn’t remember learning.

She made her way through the warren of tunnels, defending herself almost absently from Bhosek’s thugs. Her eyes continued roving every inch of the prison for traps and for signs of a “handsome Breton” even as she impaled Bloody Fists and set them on fire.

Redguards tended to be suspicious of magic, and although she didn’t exactly fit the standard description of a mage, it was pretty obvious to any observers that her attackers weren’t combusting spontaneously. Before long the surviving Fists began to give her a wide berth.

“Pssssssst!”

The sound came from a nearby cell. Jakarn? Livia hurried over to the barred door… and met a pair of large, raincloud-gray eyes. One of them was bruised and starting to swell shut.

“Tash? What the – how did you manage to –”

“I was going to surprise you!” she said. She still wore the same highly impractical clothing she’d worn in the tavern, only now it was smeared with dirt and no small amount of blood. Most of the blood didn’t look to be hers. “You know, step one, get thrown in here. Step two, break myself out. Step three, break Jakarn out. Step four, meet you at the entrance _with_ Jakarn and impress you out of your smallclothes.”

“You seem to have gotten stuck on step one.”

Tash examined a broken nail, unperturbed. “Yeah, kinda glad you didn’t wait for me outside. These goat-shaggers look _everywhere_ for lockpicks. Anyway, get me out of here.”

Livia leaned in and examined the lock on the cell door, frowning.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” said Tash. “You must’ve killed about seventeen Fists to get this far. One of them’s got a key, right?” She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, do I have to do _everything_?”

Livia gritted her teeth and retraced her steps, nudging various corpses with her boot until she found one that jingled a little. There, on his belt, a ring of keys. After a moment’s thought, she undid his belt and took the whole thing. She tried keys in the lock to Tash’s cell until one of them fit.

“There!” said Tash triumphantly as the door shrieked open. She marched past Livia, making a beeline for a corpse who’d died with a dagger in each hand. She ripped off his belt, fastened it around her own hips, stole his daggers and shoved them into the sheaths that hung from the belt. “Okay, ready!” she said, and took off down the tunnel.

Livia didn’t chase her, proceeding as though she were still alone. Carefully and methodically, watching for traps, lashing the air in front of her with fire if anyone not locked in a cell looked at her funny.

“Found him!” Tash called from around the corner. Livia followed the sound of Tash’s voice, and found the little Redguard woman standing in front of a prisoner who Livia supposed fit the description of “handsome,” if you liked pasty Breton men. Was it her imagination, or was Tash now splattered with more blood than she had been previously? She hadn’t heard any sounds of battle.

“So you’re Jakarn?” said Livia, approaching the cell door.

“That I am. Apparently the luckiest man alive.” He gave them both a slow grin. “If you can get me out of here, you ladies are in for some good luck, too.”

Tash eyed him up and down. “Nah,” she concluded.

Livia stifled a snort. “So you stole from Headman Bhosek, huh?”

“Can’t steal what was already stolen,” Jakarn said, his expression all innocence. His dry, growling voice detracted somewhat from the effect. “Bhosek took a gem the size of an orc’s heart from a merchant as ‘tribute,’ then threw him in here to die when he objected.”

“So you tried to take the gem from Bhosek… and got thrown in here to die. All the stories around here seem to have the same ending.”

“I didn’t _try_ to steal it. I stole it. Maybe his thugs found me, but he still doesn’t have the gem, and I figured I wouldn’t be in here for long. So I was pretty sure my story would have a happy ending.”

Livia had half a mind to leave him locked up just to prove him wrong, but that wouldn’t get her any closer to the mainland. More importantly, she’d given her word to Kaleen.

“The ending is up to you,” she told him. “Are you willing to help Captain Kaleen with a heist she’s planning?”

“A heist, is it?” said Jakarn. “Breaking into where and stealing what?”

“She didn’t say. Just that it’s technically not breaking the law, and that it'll make us enough to get us off this island.”

“You’re very trusting,” Jakarn purred. “But I know Kaleen, and she’s not one to exaggerate. Count me in.”

“Shake on it,” said Livia. “Say you’ll help with Kaleen’s heist, give me your hand, and I’ll let you out.”

Jakarn reached his hand out between the bars, and Livia took it. Jakarn tugged, trying to pull her closer to the cell, but she stood fast.

“You’ve got Zenithar’s own grip,” he laughed. “And his big rough hands.” He gave her a firm shake and said, “If you get me out of here – and off this island -- I’ll do whatever Kaleen needs for her heist. If I break my word, may the Bloody Fists break my bones.”

***

“So what’s next?” Tash plopped herself down next to Livia on the bench at the Screaming Mermaid, across the table from Nicolene, the _Spearhead’s _scrappy little blonde Breton cabin-girl. Kaleen’s former crew had taken to drinking at the Mermaid nearly round the clock, which meant it wasn’t safe for Kaleen to meet with her there in person.

“Who’s this?” Nicolene said, narrowing her eyes at Tash. Fantastic. Livia was drinking red wine under a gorgeous octagonal Redguard dome, sunlight filtering in dimly through leadlight windows two stories above, and as she basked in the architectural splendor her company was… two bratty adolescents.

“She helped me free Jakarn,” Livia approximated. “Tash, Nicolene. Nicolene, Tash.”

“Oh yeah?” said Nicolene. “Thanks, I guess. Don’t suppose either of you know anything about Dwemer ruins.”

The word _Dwemer_ stirred something in Livia’s memory: a faint concept of ancient, dead history.

“Just that this island is littered with their trash,” said Tash. “One of their ugly clanky pipes is fixed right on the outside of this building. Can hardly go half a mile into the desert without tripping over some rusty gear the size of a tea-table.”

“Well,” said Nicolene, “It’s all from Bthzark, to the west. There’s a pair of high elf brothers here studying it all – exiles from the Dominon – and Kaleen knows one of them, Neramo. He’s out at Bthzark right now, on the verge of cracking the secrets of some of their inventions. Kaleen thinks we could use some of that ‘trash’ in the heist.” Her eyes went wide then, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

“It’s fine, Nicolene,” said Livia patiently. “Tash already heard about the heist. She’s in.”

Tash grinned. “You need anything climbed, or anyone seduced, I’m your girl.”

“Uh huh,” said Nicolene flatly. “I’m just the messenger. I’ll leave the actual planning to Kaleen.”

“Funny,” said Tash. “There’s a ‘Kaleen’ in ‘Nicolene.’” Her smoky eyes narrowed shrewdly on the other girl’s sudden and obvious flush. “Or maybe you just _want_ there to be,” she concluded with a smirk.

“_Anyhow_,” Livia interrupted, “what is it exactly Kaleen wants me to do?”

“Just head out toward Bthzark, find Neramo, see if there’s any way you can get him to owe you, or get him interested in the heist. He likes talking about his studies, so it shouldn’t be hard to find out what he wants and how you can get it.”

“Don’t think I’ll need you for this one, Tash,” said Livia.

“I could _seduce_ him,” Tash offered.

Nicolene burst into snorting laughter. “You’ve clearly never met Neramo,” she said. “There could be a naked man and woman of every race on Tamriel dancing circles around him and he wouldn’t notice so long as he had some cracked old Dwemer pot in his hands.”

“See?” said Livia. “You just go hang out on the _Spearhead_ and I’ll come find you if I end up needing help."

“Yeah, don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“This is going to be boring, Tash. No murder, no stealing. I’m just going out into the desert to find some scholarly elf and talk him into doing us a favor.”

“Yeah, it’ll be boring if you _don’t_ bring me.”

“Boring is sort of what I’m aiming for.”

“Ugh! Fine! Suit yourself!” She tossed her braided ropes of hair. “I’ll just go find someone to seduce. Hey Nicolene, want to play ‘captain and cabin girl’?”

“I’m… going to go,” said Nicolene, beet red as she rose from the bench. “Report back to the _Spearhead_ once you’ve talked to Neramo.” She tripped slightly over the bench as she fled.

Tash looked at Livia and shrugged. “Truth is I don’t really like girls that much if there’s no man to watch, but it’s fun to make them squirm sometimes.”

“You don’t like girls?” said Livia dryly. “You hit on me the minute we met.”

Tash did a showy double-take. “Whoa, you’re a _girl_? My mistake.” She laughed. “Nah, I wasn’t _seriously_ seducing you. If I were, you’d be seduced. You just looked like the type who likes girls, and I was trying to get on your good side. Now that I _am_ on your good side I don’t have to bother flirting.”

“I don’t think you’ve even seen my good side from a _distance_, Tash.”

“Well then, your bad side looks like most people’s good side around here, so I think I’ll stick to it for a bit if it’s all the same to you.”

“How old are you, Tash?”

“Eighteen, not that it’s any of your business.”

Livia studied the girl for a moment. Why _was_ a girl of eighteen here on her own, and how did she already have so much experience with – what all was it she said? – sailing, stealing, seducing? There was a sad story there somewhere, and Livia didn’t expect Tash was about to part with it, but the realization softened her a bit toward the little pest.

“All right, you can come with me,” she said. “Just please let me do the talking.”

***

They set off together through the grand, keyhole-shaped egress in Port Hunding’s ornate western wall. The dun-colored stone that framed the grand gateway was painted, as so many doorways and building foundations were in Port Hunding, so as to alternate the natural stone with bands of stormy black. The effect was tidy and somehow festive; Livia admired it as they passed beneath. 

Tash, however, had clearly lived among Redguard architecture too long to notice it; or perhaps she simply didn’t care for beauty in general. She had also lived long enough in the desert to know to wear a hood that sheltered her nose and mouth from the occasional sand that breezes kicked up off the dunes. Livia, on the other hand could already feel sand crunching between her teeth when they spotted the little bearded Bosmer lounging under a makeshift canvas shelter wearing the blue-and-brown uniform of one of Bhosek’s enforcers.

“We’d better not draw that one’s attention,” murmured Livia. “Word might have gotten around about us from the Graves.”

“He’s skiving off, bet you a sack of gold,” said Tash. “He’s in uniform, but he’s set up a cooking fire outside town and unrolled his bed? A man who skips out on work is likely to rat on his boss. Bet we could get info… and if he gives us any trouble, it’s two to one.”

Livia followed the girl’s reasoning, and they weren’t on a particular deadline, so she shrugged and followed Tash toward the little shelter.

“Piss off,” said the Bosmer, not bothering even to get up from where he sat. “This camp’s occupied.”

“We’re just on our way to check out the ruins,” said Livia. “What brings you out here?”

“Bhosek’s orders,” he said irritably. “Making sure that elf does ‘is job.” He pointed to where the road curved southward toward another canvas shelter, larger and more ornate, with torches burning at either side. From this distance, Livia couldn’t make out if anyone was beneath it.

“’That elf’ isn’t Neramo by any chance, is it?” she said.

The Bosmer jabbed his finger in Livia’s direction. “Just so. I only promised to keep an eye on ‘im; never said I 'ad any intention of goin' near that creepy dwarf graveyard.”

“What is it Bhosek looking for there, exactly?”

“Feel free to go talk to ‘is lackey yourself,” said the Bosmer disdainfully, jerking his thumb toward Neramo’s shelter. “I’m sure ‘e’ll be delighted to offload more work onto someone else.”

“I’ll do that,” said Livia, and started off. Then she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Tash, you coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tash said in a suddenly sultry voice. “I think I might stay here. I don’t find old relics nearly as interesting as young Bosmer. Is it true your teeth are _sharper_ than other people’s?”

The wood elf ran his tongue over his (perfectly normal-seeming) teeth and eyed Tash up and down. Even in her desert traveling clothes, Tash’s figure was inviting – if you didn’t _know_ her, that was. Livia could only imagine what the man was thinking.

“Maybe,” he said noncommittally. “You got something needs biting?”

Tash let out a little peal of girlish laughter. “Oh, I like this one! He’s _fierce_! You go ahead, Livia. You know where to find me if you need me.”

“Are you seri—” Livia sighed. Shaking her head, she pressed on down the road alone. All that wheedling to come along, only to skip out at the first sight of a handsome face? 

Livia got halfway to Neramo’s shelter before the copper finally dropped. Right. Tash was going to pump the Bosmer for information about Bhosek. Among other things, probably. She _was_ helping, in her own twisted way.

Neramo was a typical Altmer: tall and golden with a handsome high-cheekboned face visible beneath the hood of his mage’s robe. At his feet was a strange inert machine made of a bronze-hued metal; it vaguely resembled a giant spider. In his hands was a rod of the same metal, which he studied minutely. As Livia approached, without looking up Neramo began speaking to her as though they’d been in mid-conversation.

“What’s interesting,” he said, “is that the Volenfell Dwemer even settled this far south! The exterior clearly reflects their unique cultural signature – such a pity Rulorn and I haven’t been able to get inside yet.”

“You must be Neramo,” she said. “I’m Livia. What do you hope to find in there exactly?”

“My hopes are irrelevant,” he said, still examining the rod. “Headman Bhosek’s hopes are what currently fund my research.” Was it her imagination, or was that an evasion? “The Headman enjoys employing Dwemer technology in Port Hunding,” he continued. “I agree that their ancient mechanisms are truly miraculous in their many applications.”

Neramo continued talking, his manner mild and sociable, but Livia was distracted as she noticed a familiar beam of vertical light off in the distance behind his shelter.

“Er, excuse me,” she said to Neramo. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you have any idea—” she pointed toward the light, “—what that is? Is that a… shard of Aetherius?”

“A skyshard?” he said sounding faintly surprised as he followed her gesture with his gaze. “Your eyes must be better than mine. To say nothing of your scholarship, if you have such an understanding of the shards’ true nature. I cannot see it from here, myself, but I would not be surprised if you are correct. People have been finding them everywhere in the years since the Soulburst, as though the sky itself shattered over Tamriel.”

“The Soulburst?” Livia echoed in confusion.

Neramo blinked. “Not a scholar, then. Very well, I shall not confuse you with the details. I refer to the large magical blast that tore apart the Imperial City.”

Livia’s heart sank. The Imperial City: the heart of Tamriel… and her home. She remembered as much as soon as he spoke the words.  
  
“In addition to flooding the world with daedra,” he continued with the same approachable, easygoing manner that was decreasingly concealing his contempt for her, “it apparently also caused those shards to fall from the sky. People say they possess some sort of beneficial powers, but I have not been able to tap into them myself, more’s the pity. Speaking of crystals, however, I _am_ on the verge of unsealing the door to Bthzark, which I suspect will have a greater effect on our immediate fortunes.”

Livia tried to shake off her increasingly foul mood. “Are you saying you need help?” she asked Neramo.

“In fact I do.” Using the metal rod in his hand, he gestured to the inert spider by his feet. “This rod was designed to control this Dwemer construct. It requires a pair of focusing crystals to function, but the local wildlife has made approach to their locations impractical.” He actually seemed to take Livia in as an individual for the first time, his eyes coldly measuring. “You wield a sword; perhaps you could fetch the crystals for me. Then when I finish reassembling the construct, I can use it to open the door to the ruined city of Bthzark. If we can get inside, we shall see wonders the likes of which you have never dreamed.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Livia.

Armed with a swiftly-sketched map, a description of the focusing crystals, and instructions to meet Neramo at the entrance once she had acquired them, Livia set off across the sand. 

Before rushing to do the Altmer’s bidding, she turned her steps in the direction of the skyshard, driven to discover whether her previous experience would repeat itself. As she drew nearer, she heard the crystal’s gentle song, beckoning. It was best, perhaps, that Tash hadn’t accompanied her; Livia wasn’t ready for the inevitable questions. With held breath she approached the shard and laid her bare palm against it. As before, instantly, her mind filled with light and song.

_Varen Aquilarios_. The charismatic and courageous Duke of Chorrol. She could see him in her mind’s eye: the broken bridge of his Imperial nose, his close-cropped dark hair and fierce eyes. He had led an army against the daedra-worshipping foreigner who had squatted on the Ruby Throne, and then he had slain him in single combat. Aquilarios had returned the rule of Cyrodiil to one of her own people – he had been the emperor Livia had trained to serve. She had been ready and willing to lay down her life for him… but–

\--But what? She remembered nothing beyond that. Neramo told her the Imperial City was shattered; had she fled? Had the Emperor?

She released the now-dormant shard and murmured a brief prayer of gratitude to Akatosh, dragon-god of time. Turning over this new information in the back of her mind, trying to piece together the rough edges of a portrait of who she actually _was_, she proceeded west toward the Dwemer ruin. 

The closer she approached to the ruin, the more distracted she became by the sense of awe that crept over her. What was left of Bthzark easily took up a fifth of the island’s landmass; it must once have been a thriving city. Now it was a looming jumble of sand-dusted towers, scattered gears, and massive broken pipes. The ancient pipes and gears gleamed like new bronze where the sun caught them, untarnished by time.

The brilliant red focusing crystals were not difficult to spot among the ruins, but Neramo was right: giant assassin beetles had taken to sheltering in the shadows of the crumbling stonework and metal, and they did not take kindly to being disturbed. By the time she acquired both crystals and located Neramo in the tunnel that led to the ruin’s sealed entrance, her shins and arms were covered with fresh burns from the beetles’ acid.

Neramo, still tinkering with the metal spider, glanced at her and absently lifted his hand toward her. A soft white glow emitted from his palm, and her skin was restored to its previous state: scarred and insect-bitten, but no longer burned. Before she could even thank the elf, he unceremoniously plucked the focusing crystals from her hands and began talking again as he fitted them into either end of the copper-colored rod he held.

“An entire race of brilliant artisans and metalworkers, building vast underground cities filled with remarkable inventions – and yet now those works are all that remain of them. An entire people, vanished without a trace. Perhaps the greatest unanswered question in all of Tamriel’s history.” He pointed the newly-restored control rod at the Dwemer spider. “By the way, I do hope you can destroy this mechanism if it attacks us.”

Livia drew her sword. The eight-legged construct began to make a strange ticking sound, and small gears began to turn, just visible beneath its metal “spine.” It lifted its front pair of legs as though intending to use them as “hands,” but for the moment it remained docile. Livia kept her blade pointed at it just in case.

“Now,” said Neramo. “You simply point the rod at the device you desire the construct to manipulate.” He demonstrated by pointing at the entrance to a nearby pipe; the little spider scurried to climb into it. Neramo then moved the rod to point it at the great metal doors before them. “In theory, it should follow the pipe inside and disable whatever mechanism seals the door.”

Livia could hear the slightly distressing sound of the creature’s metallic legs skittering through the pipe; from the sound of it, the pipe climbed vertically for some distance after disappearing into the wall, and then descended again to somewhere inside the ruin. Neramo kept the rod pointed at the door, and in a few moments Livia could hear the spider skittering toward it from the other side. There was a deep, metallic _click_, and then suddenly gears Livia had not even noticed in the deceptively smooth surface of the doors began to turn. With a great metallic groaning sound, the doors parted and swung forty-five degrees inward.

“At last!” Neramo said ecstatically. He hurried inside, and Livia followed. She tried not to panic as the great doors closed behind them.

They were in a great curving hallway now: dark stone highlighted decoratively in places with bronze-colored metal, high-ceilinged and dimly lit by caged sconces set along the walls. The sconces held not candles but strange upside-down jars that glowed with a faint but steady greenish-yellow light. Livia could not see very far ahead, but the silence that stretched before them was oppressive and vast. Aside from the spider’s constant ticking, she could only hear occasional distant creaks and deep groans that sounded like colossal metallic structures under stress.

“This will earn me a hefty sum from Headman Bhosek,” said Neramo softly, “And I’m willing to share, if you are willing to proceed.”

“What do you need me to do?” Livia said nervously.

“I suspect the usual defenses are still in place here, despite the age of the ruins. Constructs will likely attack you; I need you to fight them off and locate two specific mechanisms.” He rummaged in his knapsack and pulled out a leatherbound journal. Licking his thumb and then flipping through its pages, he found the sketch he was looking for and turned the book around for Livia to squint at in the dim light. “I call them generators,” he said, “since Independently Apportioning Dynamo Core is a bit of a mouthful. There should be one on each side of the ruin, not far from here.”

Livia studied the sketch. “Uh… when you say ‘constructs will likely attack,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“The constructs will resemble our friend here,” said Neramo. “A few hits with that sword ought to disable them. It is extremely crucial that we get those generators working. For that, I will be giving you the control rod. If you point it at the generator, our friend should be able to repair it if need be and then activate it.” He held out the control rod toward Livia. She wasn’t certain if she should be flattered by his trust, or insulted by his assumption that she would have no agenda beyond serving him.

She took the control rod from him, and the little spider skittered to her side.

Neramo looked at the construct wistfully. “Do bring it back safely,” he said.

“Of course,” said Livia. Steeling her courage, she proceeded further into the ruin.

The hallways were indeed patrolled by ancient spider-constructs, but they didn’t hold up well to repeated blows with a sword. The sound of metal striking metal echoed harshly in the emptiness. 

Corridors led to grand chambers, a dizzying maze of pipes running all along their walls and ceilings. The vacancy of the place, though, was haunting. The constructs were facsimiles of life -- soulless, empty vessels like Livia herself -- scurrying to and fro in defense of their creators’ tomb. But not a tomb, even. No old bones lying where they’d been put to rest. Absolute emptiness, an entire civilization inexplicably abandoned. Something about this idea set Livia on edge, treading a strange narrow walkway between sorrow and unease.

When she found the first generator, the rod seemed to do what it was meant to do; her spider-friend hurried to tinker with the device for several minutes, and then the generator began to glow faintly. It was only when Livia found and repaired the second generator that she understood what Neramo had sent her to do. The moment the second generator returned to life, the entire ruin came alive with it. 

The sconces in the walls brightened to a radiant whiteness, a strange hissing began to move through the pipes, and gears in the walls began to turn. Most startlingly of all, great heavy rods began to move up and down beside doorways and at other strategic points in the architecture, plunging and lifting and plunging and repeating in a hissing, creaking, endless rhythm.

Was this the way the Dwemer had lived? Among all this constant mechanical noise? Unimaginable. But with the power to the mechanisms restored, the light-flooded place was slightly less eerie. Livia was now torn between awe and annoyance as she waited for Neramo to find her in the central chamber between the two generators.

“Excellent!” he said, his eyes dancing. “You have resurrected Bthzark! And now to attend to my personal agenda. There’s more coin in it for you, if you’ll assist.”

“Personal agenda?” Livia prompted. “I thought you were working for Bhosek.”

“Yes, well. I accepted Bhosek’s request because there is a very specific set of mechanical drawings that I know to be hidden somewhere inside this ruin. Now that you’ve restored the power, we should be able to get deeper inside, but there will likely be more aggressive constructs. That should be no deterrent to one such as you. I can bring back enough dwarven trinkets to satisfy the tyrant, and at the same time obtain something I prize greatly myself. As Bhosek pays well, I am willing to set aside as much as you require to compensate you for your trouble.”

There it was: the opportunity Livia had patiently awaited. “Keep the coin,” she said. “I’ll go in there with you and help you fetch your prize _if_ you promise to help the raider captain Kaleen with a heist she’s planning. She thinks your knowledge of Dwemer technology may be useful in her plan. If we can pull this heist off, she and I will both have all the coin we need to get out of here.”

“Captain Kaleen, you say?” Neramo’s eyes lit with shrewd interest. “I understand that before she became stranded here, her next destination was meant to be the isle of Betnikh. Is that correct?”

“Possibly,” said Livia. “I couldn’t swear to it. Her first mate is an orc and said something about visiting her people? The name of the place sounded something like that.”

“It must be,” Neramo said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Betnikh is an orc stronghold. The ruins there interest me greatly.” He pondered a moment longer, then nodded crisply. “Very well, you have my word that I will do my best to assist Captain Kaleen with her heist. And then perhaps I shall see if I can book passage with her.”

Livia put out a hand. Neramo stared at it for a moment and then belatedly took it, allowing her to shake hands with him as though he were observing an exotic primitive ritual.

“It’s a deal,” said Livia. “Now.” She drew her sword. “Let’s plunder some ruins.”

***

It wasn’t until late in the evening that Livia saw Tash again. The Bosmer’s little camp and both its inhabitants had been gone without a trace when Livia and Neramo emerged from Bthzark. But a couple of hours after dark, the girl came straggling back to the Mermaid and plopped herself down at the bar next to Livia as she had on her first day. Livia didn’t even favor her with eye contact, just kept drinking her wine.

“No, I wasn’t murdered, thanks for asking,” said Tash.

“If you were, it would be no fault of mine,” said Livia, still staring straight ahead. “Tell me you at least found something out.”

“I found out that Andrilion – that’s his name – wields an arrow, not a sword, if you know what I mean.”

“Tash – “

“Biggest thorn in Bhosek’s side right now is the Sea Drakes, bunch of pirates who’ve taken over Saintsport down south. Their Captain Helane has been messing with the lighthouse down there to wreck ships and take their stuff, Andrilion said. If he’s right, you kinda have to admire Helane. I mean, she’s the first pirate captain in history to plunder ships from the comfort of her own little beachside town. Anyway, she’s plundering booty that Bhosek thinks ought to be his, but he doesn’t have the stones to actually face her down yet. Apparently she’s an absolute terror.”

“Interesting, but not sure how we can use that.”

“You want useful,” said Tash, “try this. Seems Bhosek has a weakness for pretty ladies, to the point that they can distract him from _literally anything_. And he gets sick of them after one or two ‘uses,’ so he’s constantly on the lookout for fresh faces.” Tash gave a luxurious stretch, like a cat waking up. “As it turns out, I’ve always wanted to sleep with a tyrant.”

“Tash, you are too young to be doing this kind of thing.”

“The law says otherwise. Actually the law _here_ says fifteen. But I mean, I’m pretty much legal anywhere in Covenant lands, as of last month.”

“As of last -- ! I’m not talking about the law, Tash. I’m talking about – just basic respect for yourself.”

“I respect that Morwha blessed my fine ass so I can have any man I want, whenever I want, for however damned long I want. If that gets your knickers in a knot, maybe it’s you who doesn’t respect me.”

“And what happens if you get yourself with child?”

“Can’t.”

“How can you possibly know – “

“Can’t, all right? Not getting into the story.”

“Still, there are diseases, and – “

“You go walking into prisons full of traps and dark abandoned ruins, and you’re about to lecture me on the risk of itchy bits? You’re not worried about the _risk_. You just can’t stand to see anyone having _fun_, and so you use fake worry as a stick to try to beat the fun out of me. But nobody really cares, Livia.”

“I happen to care about a lot of things, Tash. But you’re fast slipping off that list.”

Tash’s smoky eyes went wide, then narrowed. “Well, your nice act sure wears off quick.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me, Tash, literally not even the _first_ thing, which is a doozy, by the way. But you’ve never asked. You’re no better than Neramo, sizing me up in a heartbeat to see if I’m useful for whatever it is you want. I don’t know what your game is, but I think I’m tired of being a piece in it. If you want in on the heist, go to the _Spearhead_ and talk to Kaleen directly.”

Tash was silent for a moment, glaring at Livia. Then she slipped off her bar stool. “See if I don’t,” she said, and then stormed out of the tavern in a huff.

Livia didn’t expect to see her again. She didn’t expect that to bother her, either. For some reason, though, it did.

***

“I’ve got some bad news,” Kaleen said on the twelfth of Morning Star, when Livia’s set of armor was about half done and her patience with life on Stros M’Kai wearing very, very thin. Kaleen was set up in a little hideout near the docks; her first mate Lambur guarded the entrance, as very few people were willing to try and push past a disgruntled-looking orc.

Jakarn was there too, walking a coin back and forth across his knuckles where he leaned against a wall. Nicolene sat literally at the captain’s feet, next to her chair on the floor, staring raptly up at her face.

“Is it about Lerisa?” Nicolene asked.

“Afraid so.” Kaleen turned back to Livia to explain. “Lerisa Geric, a.k.a. Crafty Lerisa, is another ship captain; a good friend of mine I was counting on to help with the heist. Her ship, the _Maiden’s Breath_, was supposed to arrive last night, but apparently she fell prey to Helane’s lighthouse tricks, and the _Maiden’s Breath _is now splinters on the rocks near Saintsport. I have no idea what happened to Lerisa and her crew. We could probably do the heist without her, but I don’t feel right about giving up on her.”

“So you want me to head to Saintsport, I take it?”

“Honestly?” Kaleen smoothed a hand back over the cloth that bound her hair, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t feel right asking that either. I sent a scout early this morning, but never heard back. The things they say about Helane… she doesn’t just kill people outright. If you got captured, it could get ugly.”

Jakarn made a sort of disgruntled noise from where he leaned against the wall. “That means it could be getting ugly for your friend Lerisa, too.”

“This is why I’m torn. I don’t want to abandon her, but I also don’t want to keep sending people into the same trap.”

“Didn’t say_ I_ was volunteering,” Jakarn noted. “But Lucky Liv here got in and out of the Grave without a scratch. And in and out of a Dwemer ruin full of angry mechanical spiders, to hear Neramo tell it.”

Livia shifted her weight, more uncomfortable at the praise than the potential danger. “I’ll at least head south and try to get a feel for the situation,” she said, “scout out the town from a distance. If it seems like a death trap, I won’t walk into it, but maybe there’s a way to help without getting myself captured too.”

Kaleen exhaled heavily. “Thanks, Livia. Once again, you’re a lifesaver. I know it’s because you want off this island too, but you’ve got skills, and I’m glad to have you on the team. Maybe I can convince you to help out on the ship, once we get going?”

Livia gave her a half-smile. “I don’t think sailing’s for me,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’ll find some way to earn my keep on the voyage.”

“You’ve already earned it and then some,” said Kaleen. “Just come back in one piece from Saintsport, ‘Lucky Liv,’ and I promise you, my ship will take you anywhere you want to go.”

***

_Lucky Liv_. She was still thinking about the nickname Jakarn had given her as the Saintsport lighthouse rose into view around the bend in the stony desert road. She did seem to have simultaneously the best and worst luck in Tamriel, didn’t she? 

Getting sacrificed to Molag Bal at the prime of her life: uncannily bad luck. Her dead self arriving in Coldharbour just in time for a slave rebellion that got her of there out more or less _alive_: uncannily good luck. Landing in the sea near an island full of pirates? Bad. Happening to get fished out of the sea by the one pirate with any respect for the law? Good. Livia was starting to believe that luck wasn’t involved here at all, but rather something vast and beyond her understanding. Her only question was whether she should trust that something, or fear it.

The lighthouse was removed enough from the town that Livia figured it a safe place to start investigating. Like so much of traditional Redguard architecture it was gorgeous, with both its dome and octagonal balcony underlined with gilt and alternating stripes of brown and black. The shape was even more phallic than absolutely necessary for a lighthouse, but Livia found it charming all the same.

It was also currently abandoned, as she expected, and unlocked, which was a nice surprise. Livia climbed the stairs to the top; from there she had a splendid view of the eastern shore of the island. To the north she could make out the wall of Port Hunding, with its massive sentinel statue gazing out to sea, stone torch raised. She was almost certain she could even see the masts of the _Spearhead_ in port. To the south, Saintsport, and what must have been Helane’s ship, the _Bloody Witch_. Saintsport was considerably smaller – and closer -- than Port Hunding, built in the same traditional Redguard style. No one was caring for the town; there were pieces missing from most of the buildings, and even from this distance she could see how the paint had chipped away in places from the walls.

From her vantage point it was also clear that the safest point of approach to the town would be to come from inland; most of the people wearing the faded burgundy of Helane’s Sea Drakes seemed to be congregating nearer the docked ship. It was going to be tricky either way, but following the road from the desert looked to be less risky than coming in from shore. She headed down the lighthouse stairs and headed for the road.

The town was not walled, which meant she had her choice of entry point. Unfortunately, even inland, there looked to be almost no way to slip in completely unseen by those wearing burgundy. Livia kept her distance, stalking the perimeter of the town in the shade of palms or rock outcroppings, carefully searching for paths into the town where shadows or cover could best conceal her.

It was on her second pass across the road that she spotted a familiar face. But no… it couldn’t be. 

She crept closer to the point where the road entered town, using the crumbled remains of a statue to shelter her from the line of sight of the two nearby pirates. The statue must once have been a smaller version of the sentinel on the wall at Port Hunding, but now there was little left of it but its pedestal and the hem of its robes. Once she was close enough for a good look, she peered around the broken sentinel’s skirts.

It _was_ Tash. Dressed in Sea Drake burgundy, lounging against a palm and chatting with a similarly-attired Breton woman across the road from her. Livia moved as close as she dared, trying to eavesdrop.

“…the life for me,” the Breton was saying, a bit slurred by drink. “To be honest, ships always made me a little queasy.”

“Not meee,” said Tash. Her words were even more slurred; nearly unintelligible. “I love the roll o’th deck, the shalt air… mmmm. But Helane’s where’s the _money_ roun’ here, so I think I’m’a shtick with her fr’m now on. Haven’t ate this well in _yeeeeears_.”

“Where were you before?” asked the Breton. “Port Hunding? Better not tell Helane, if you were one of Bhosek’s.”

“Oh, nah,” said Tash. “Jush shcrapin’ by off what I could pockepit… er… pockpicket, an’ con outa people. Had a good thing goin’ with this ug-bugly Imperial chick for a minute – _perfeck_ meat shield – but she’s one of the types has _shcruples_ an’ wantsh ta tell ya how to live yer life alla time. Sho, sheein’ as I heard how well Helane was doin’ down here, I headed shouth.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t just gut you for wearing the wrong color.”

“I have waysa gettin’ in with whoever I wanna get in with,” Tash boasted. “Jush a matter of findin’ out people’s weak shpots.”

“Helane has a weak spot?” said the Breton with interest.

“Not nearly drunk enough yet to go aroun’ tellin people _that_,” said Tash. “Hey, should I get more rum?”

The Breton chuckled. “I think maybe you should.”

“Mmm. Cover for me, a’ight?” Tash staggered toward the town. Livia shrank against the statue as the girl drew closer. Her gut churned with a mixture of anxiety and rage; she was sure that her eyes would burn actual holes in Tash’s back as she sauntered weaving by.

But then Tash stopped. Stood absolutely steady for a moment. Turned and looked over her shoulder, _directly into Livia’s eyes_. It was only for a moment, and then she was staggering her way into town.

All of Livia’s senses sharpened, as though she were readying herself for battle. How long had Tash known she was there? What was her game? Shaken, Livia retreated back to the shadows at the perimeter. She sat for a while in the sand under a palm, trying to reorder her thoughts, to formulate a strategy around Tash – whose motives were unknown -- knowing she was here. She felt a little dizzy, so she broke out some of the dried meat she’d brought with her and washed it down with disturbingly warm water from her canteen.

_You can’t think if you don’t eat_, someone had told her once. Who, though? She probed at the memory, but it surrendered nothing. So frustrating. Twelve days since she’d returned from Coldharbour, and still, for all she knew she could be a mother of five, a murderess on the run, the lost Empress of Tamriel.

She saw movement in her periphery and was on her feet in an instant. A wild-eyed Altmer, covered in bruises, half-ran half-crept through a shadowy path leading out of town. He disappeared behind a huge craggy boulder, and Livia heard the unmistakable sound of his body hitting the sand. Swiftly she drew her blade and made her way to him.

He was already trying to push himself back to his feet, leaning heavily on the rock.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, sheathing her sword.

He startled at the sight of her, then relaxed as she put away her weapon. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, gingerly prodding at his own ribs. “I need to get out of here. Please. They’ve got the rest of the crew. The things they’re doing to them…”

“Slow down. You’re from the _Maiden’s Breath_?”

“I was. Telonil, the quartermaster.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Auri-El…”

Livia laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be all right. Is Captain Lerisa in there? Is she alive?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Helane said she was being keelhauled, but I saw Howler in town. The captain’s monkey. He’s never far away from her; she must be in town somewhere.” He started shaking suddenly. “I need to get out of here.”

“Here,” said Livia, handing him what was left of her water and dried meat. “You just rest, all right? You should be safe here. Stay behind this rock and have something to eat; keep still and they won’t see you. When I get back, I’ll escort you somewhere safe.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you. Please find the captain if you can.”

There was no way to get into the town without killing someone, but Livia was familiar enough now with the town’s layout that she was at least able to lure the pirates to her one at a time and not raise a general alarm. She managed to cut enough throats to empty the way to a spot nearer the center of town, and that’s when she spotted the monkey. He was sitting on the steps of a particularly shabby building across the town center from her. Even more incredibly, from inside the same building, a needle of light stabbed straight through the roof toward the sky.

“One sign would’ve been enough,” Livia murmured to the Divines. “I’m going, I’m going.”

She waited for a pair of drunken Sea Drakes with linked arms to stagger out of her eyeline, then quickly darted toward the dilapidated building. The monkey spotted her and dashed inside; Livia wasn’t far behind.

There was a skyshard just inside the front door. Judging from the debris around it, at some point in the past few years it had crashed straight through the roof. The building looked to have been abandoned since then; there were no footsteps visible on the dusty floor other than the monkey’s. No wonder, that. Redguards and pirates both tended to be superstitious, and this place had a cursed look about it even if you couldn’t see the bolt of arcane energy piercing the heavens.

Livia approached the skyshard as though it were an old friend, reaching out to lay a hand against its cool, hard surface. When she made contact, song and light filled her mind, and a memory: as crystal-clear as though she were reliving it that very moment.

_She’s not quite eighteen yet, not allowed to fight. But there has to be some way she can help the Duke. Her speech is a good and passionate one; she’s practiced it, but as she finishes both men just… stare at her._

_The beaky brown man is the first to break the silence. "Not the place or the people, young lady,” he says sharply. “We're not recruiters, trawling the highlands for disaffected noble offspring and sturdy farmers' sons. I am Commander Pelletus, of Lord Jarol's guard, and this man is Legionary Captain --"_

_The giant blond man with the eye patch lifts a hand to cut Pelletus off. "Aiax Adolphus. Captain of the Imperial Legions. And not in the practice of turning away recruits." _

_His name sounds Cyrodiilic, but from the look of him he’s at least half Nord. His voice is a low rumble, and quieter than one might expect from such a scar-faced brute of a man. His accent, with its rounded Altmeri vowels, is pure West Weald nobility. His lone eye, ice-blue, assesses her. _

_"You've got a nerve on you, girl." It sounds like a compliment. "If you've got wits or a blade to match, you're welcome. What's your name?"_

“Livia,” she said softly to a dim, empty room. “Livia Verrus.”

For a moment she stood in silence, filled with a sense of loss. The bearded Redguard who had trained her for the Emperor’s guard – she’d admired him, but at a certain distance. Her Emperor, Varen Aquilarios – she’d sworn herself to his service, but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever had a conversation with him. Adolphus, though – he had been something different, something closer. A safe harbor, the first person she had ever fully trusted. Someone she could have told about Coldharbour, about her lost soul. Someone who would have listened grimly and then figured out a plan.

Though she remembered nothing for certain beyond their first meeting, her gut told her that he had already been lost to her somehow. Whether he was alive or dead, she couldn’t say -- only that even before Coldharbour, she’d missed him keenly. This feeling of futile longing for his careful, even-tempered counsel – she was certain she’d had it before, when she was alive.

The chattering of the monkey broke her gloomy reverie. The little beast made eye contact with her, then scampered away onto the small stone-paved terrace outside. Almost as though it wanted her to follow. Keeping one hand on the hilt of her sword, Livia trailed after the creature, all too aware of the prints her ungainly feet left in the dust. 

The terrace was completely enclosed by a low, crumbling stone wall. There was nothing on it but desert sunlight and broken empty crates, on one of which the monkey now sat.

“Interesting,” said a soft voice behind her.

Livia whirled around, drawing her weapon. The nondescript Breton woman in the doorway continued to lean against the frame, arms folded. After a moment, Livia warily sheathed her sword.

“You aren’t at all what I was expecting,” the Breton said mildly, and then turned to move back inside the building. As soon as the woman’s back was turned, Livia found she could hardly remember her face. “Let’s talk,” the stranger said from the shadows. “Are you here to make the good kind of trouble, or the bad kind?”

Livia followed the woman inside, keeping her voice low. “I’m looking for Captain Lerisa of the _Maiden’s Breath_.”

“You’ve found her,” said the Breton. “And your timing couldn’t be better. I need some help freeing my crew.”

Livia took this in stride. “Do you have a plan?”

“I do, in fact. Kill Sea Drakes, steal their clothes. Find my crew, dress them in burgundy. If they keep their heads down, these drunken bastards will let them walk right out of here.”

“Anyone in particular I should look for? And where?”

“Look for two-story buildings. They keep prisoners on the upper floors. Look for four men: a portly Breton, a nervous high elf, a sour Redguard, and a big Orc. The rest are either dead or I’ve sprung them already. Once those four are out, meet me near Helane’s ship. I’ve got some business to take care of there.”

“I think I saw your elf,” said Livia. “Telonil? He’s recovering just south of town.”

“_Really,_” said Lerisa, stroking her chin. “I know who to thank for that. All right, _three_ men. Find them and meet me by the _Bloody Witch_. Tash, I know you’re listening, so get in here and help.”

Before Livia could express her astonishment, Tash dropped in through the hole in the roof. She was still in Sea Drake colors, a sulky expression on her face. A roll of burgundy cloth was tucked under one arm. “You spoiled it!” she said to Lerisa.

“Just get this one dressed, and get moving. Every minute we waste is another minute my crew gets tortured.”

“Fine, fine,” said Tash. 

Lerisa left via the terrace, vaulting herself easily over the low stone wall, the monkey at her heels. Livia turned her stupefied gaze to Tash, who was unrolling her little bundle to reveal what appeared to be a man’s tunic and trousers, both in Sea Drake burgundy. 

“Sit down, you big lug,” Tash said, gesturing to a large sturdy crate. “Let’s get you dressed. Care to guess how I got _these_ off a Nord without bloodying them up?”

“I don’t,” said Livia. Her mind turned slowly, like rusty Dwemer gears, as she sat on the crate. “You’re the scout Kaleen sent.”

“Give the girl a prize.” Tash grabbed Livia’s arms, pointed them upward as though she were a toddler, and began pulling the shirt onto her over her breastplate.

“She still has no idea what happened to you,” Livia said, muffled by the shirt.

“I upgraded myself to double agent,” said Tash, and tossed the rest of the burgundy fabric into Livia’s lap. “Put these trousers on over those ugly leg plates of yours. Should get you past most of this lot. But if you see anyone who looks sober, face away from them and try to keep some distance. The Orc’s in the building with the red canopy. Not sure about the other two yet. I’ve only been here since this morning, and I’ve had to spend most of the time fitting in so I could feed info to Lerisa.”

Livia continued trying to work through it all in her mind as she struggled into the trousers. “You’re the one who set Telonil free.” 

“Once I knew he had someone to run to, yeah. He was being held too far from the shore; he’d never have made it. I figured you’d take care of him, being the noble heroic type.”

“He’s still waiting for me. We need to hurry.”

“You spring the Orc; I’ll see if I can find the others.” With that Tash leaped onto a stack of crates, then up through the hole in the ceiling. Livia shook her head, tucked the baggy waist of the trousers into her belt, and headed out the front door like a normal person.

Moving through Saintsport was much easier in burgundy. Livia still had to watch her back, but she didn’t have to keep so strictly to the shadows. She followed the sound of deep, guttural screams to the room where the Orc was being held.

He was even bigger than Kaleen’s first mate, with green skin, shoulders like an ox, tusks, and a jutting brow. The facial features of Orcs stirred vaguely unpleasant memories for Livia, but at the moment this particular Orc was having his fingernails removed one by one, which took priority. Livia ran her sword through the back of his Sea Drake torturer, then cut the Orc’s bonds and helped him into the dead woman’s clothes. This took some creative fabric-slashing.

“Make straight for the shore, near where the ship is anchored,” she told the Orc once he was dressed.

“Word of advice,” the Orc growled darkly. “Don’t let them capture you. If you can’t get away, die fighting.” He made his way painfully down the stairs.

As Livia gave the room a last once-over, Tash appeared, leaning through the window. The _second-story_ window.

“Hey,” she said casually. “Just found the Redguard, but I need you to get him for me. He’s in the big fancy building with the dome. I sprung the fat guy for you, Crenard something? He’s on his way to the shore. Meet you there.”

And then she was gone. 

The domed building to which Tash had directed Livia must once have been the home of a local official or mayor. Leadlight windows on the upper story softened the sun and admitted it into a recessed dining area on the lower floor, where two pirates sat eating, not even giving Livia a second glance. Near them, a stone column had the middle broken out of it; the missing piece lay crumbling on the cracked tile floor. An elegant staircase led to the ring-shaped upper floor.

Livia mounted the stairs, trying not to draw excessive attention to herself. The Redguard was tied up on the upper story balcony, unguarded. His eyes were half swelled shut, but she had no trouble recognizing the rage in them.

“Do your worst, Sea Drake!” he said to Livia as she approached.

“I’m no Sea Drake,” she said quietly. “But I got in here by looking like one, and I think you can get out the same way.” She cut his bonds, then started to remove her burgundy shirt and trousers. “Lerisa sent me,” she added when he continued to look baffled and suspicious.

At the mention of his captain’s name, his face lit with hope. “I _knew_ she wouldn’t leave us! If you want me to put those on, I’ll need help -- the Sea Drakes spent the last hour breaking every bone in my hands.”

Livia set her jaw and carefully guided his arms into the sleeves. “If you keep out of sight of the sober ones, these clothes should get you to shore; Lerisa’s assembling the crew near Helane’s ship.”

“How are _you_ going to get there?” he asked.

“After what I’ve seen,” she said grimly, “I’ve decided to cut my way out.”

He grinned fiercely. “Kill the two downstairs for me,” he said, and then _leapt off the balcony_. Livia rushed to the edge, only to see that he’d landed in an athletic roll and was already back up on his feet and making for shore.

Livia took a deep breath, cracked her knuckles, drew her sword, and headed downstairs.

She was sporting, and let the two pirates find their weapons first. Then she lashed them with dragon-fire and grimly cut them ribbons. A pair of drunk pirates was no problem. Once she got outside, though, four came at her at once, and two were clever enough to flank her.

“Yaarrrrrgh!”

With a blood-curdling cry, Tash leaped down from a rooftop to bury a dagger into one of them, and from that point on, things got a little less scary and a lot more complicated. Especially since Tash was still wearing Sea Drake burgundy, and now the poor sots weren’t sure if this was an attack or a mutiny. Some of them started throwing punches at and stabbing _each other_.

“This is almost – _sad_,” Tash panted as she flipped over one’s head to get behind him and bury a dagger in his ribs.

“Who _trained_ you?” said Livia in astonishment as she set a scruffy Breton Sea Drake on fire. He started screaming and ran, spooking the two women who were grappling each other behind him and sending them fleeing as well.

“Would you believe, a Khajiit?”

“Honestly? Yes, I would.”

The two of them fought their way to the shore, leaving a wake of absolute chaos behind them. Near the docked _Witch_, a huge rock outcropping shaded Lerisa and her assembled crew from view; she’d managed to round up Telonil as well, to Livia’s vast relief.

“That’s everyone,” Lerisa said in greeting as the two panting and bloodied women joined them in the shade. “Everyone except my first mate, Deregor. Tash, grab a shirt out of that pile; yours is covered in blood, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance somebody will have a problem with that. I need you to find the key to the storeroom where they’re holding Deregor in the belly of the ship, _without incident_, and meet me on deck when you’re through.” She turned to Livia, then. “You, big girl, what’s your name?”

“Lucky Liv,” she said dryly. 

Tash squealed and clapped her hands, bouncing picturesquely. “Oh, I _love _it.”

“Liv, you’re with me,” said Lerisa. She held up a small brass key. “Put on some burgundy, and let’s go thank Helane for the hospitality she’s extended my crew. I’m guessing she won’t be in any condition to put up a fight, but just in case, I could use some backup.”

Livia sifted through the discarded clothes until she found the ones she'd been wearing before.

“They look better on you,” said a semi-familiar voice. The long-haired Redguard she’d freed. She’d never gotten his name. He had a nice smile, and it wasn't often that anyone gave her _that _kind of smile, but no. There wasn't a man alive she’d look at the same way he was looking at her, not even one as impressively courageous as he was. She gave him a friendly slap on the back and returned to Lerisa’s side. Together, the two headed for the dock.

“Did you know Kaleen sent me?” Livia asked her quietly.

“I didn’t,” said Lerisa, “but it makes sense. When I was in Daggerfall, she sent word about wanting my help with something when I got here.”

“She’s planning a heist. A big one. You think you can help?”

“Well, obviously I need money for a new ship,” she said dryly. “As for Kaleen, eh – she’s a little too obsessed with old Fahara’jad, but I like her style. So I’m in. Assuming we get out of this last bit alive.”

“Obsessed with… Fahara’jad?” Livia said. “Uh, jog my memory.”

“The Redguard king.” Lerisa gave her an odd look. “Have you been living under—Oh! You mean the obsession.” Livia had also forgotten the Redguard king’s name, but she was fine with the misunderstanding. “He doesn’t want his people raiding Breton ships, now that he’s part of the Daggerfall Covenant. Most raiders ignore him, I mean, since when do pirates care what kings say? But Kaleen is … a fan of his.” She shrugged.

Livia didn’t think respecting one’s ruler sounded like a particularly bad character trait, but then again she was also a former Imperial guard (or at least in training to be one), and not a pirate. She acknowledged that she might have some bias in the situation.

There weren't many sailors aboard the ship; it seemed the Sea Drakes had gotten used to spending their time on solid ground. A private sleeping room, though, was apparently too valuable a thing for the mighty Helane to surrender. Captain Lerisa unlocked the door to the captain’s quarters, whistling.

A fair-haired Breton woman staggered slowly toward them in the dim cabin. At first Livia thought she might be drunk, but then she saw the woman’s face: paler even than nausea could account for.

“Did you… poison me?” Helane said to Lerisa. She looked so frightened for a moment that Livia almost felt sorry for her, but then her face quickly twisted into a monstrous snarl. “I'll gut you like a pig,” she gasped. “Roast you on a spit…” She fell to her knees.

“Like you did Lazy Gwael?” said Lerisa quietly. “Or wouldn't you rather flay me alive, like you did Aideh? Or spend an hour drowning me in a barrel like Red Alex? You know, Elvinn asked me, once I cut him loose, ‘What made her this way? Is she possessed by daedra? Did something horrible happen to her as a child?’ And it looks like in order to find out, I’ll have to give you that antidote on the top shelf you were probably trying to reach. Because I imagine you're in too much pain to tell stories right now.”

Helane answered by falling curled onto her side.

“What did you give her?” Livia asked.

“Jarrin root,” Lerisa said. “Helane likes to use it on disobedient crew. Takes about half a day to kill you, but it starts dissolving the stomach lining almost right away.” She sauntered to the nearby bookshelf, grabbed a blue-green bottle from the top of it. “Is this what you were trying to reach, Helane?” She held the bottle out toward the prone woman. “How frustrating it must be to depend on _me, _of all people, to save you.”

Helane snarled and reached for it.

“You have to promise me,” Lerisa said, “that if I give you this you'll solve this little mystery for all of us. Explain all the torturing, you know, the _point _of it all. And then swear by whatever Divines or daedra you worship that it’ll stop. That you'll leave this island, find some other hobby, maybe even get a nice job as a clerk somewhere, I don't know. But just promise me all that. Say, ‘Captain Lerisa, I promise to explain my reasons for torturing everybody, and then go find some honest work.” She held the bottle a little closer.

Sweat poured down Helane’s grayish face, and she moaned, trying to reach for the bottle.

“Sorry, didn't _quite_ catch that. ‘Captain Lerisa, I promise…’ Come on, better say it quick. Once the vomiting starts, I understand it's pretty hard to stop.”

“Captain Lerisa…” Helane hissed through gritted teeth, still reaching for the bottle that was inches from her fingertips, “I _promise_…”

“Oh, hey!” Lerisa interrupted cheerfully, looking to Livia. “You know what I just remembered?”

“What?” said Livia cautiously.

“That I don't care!” Whistling to herself, Lerisa breezily replaced the bottle on the top shelf. “Stay and watch the show if you want, but keep your boots well clear. I'm going to go check on Tash and Deregor.” With that, Lerisa exited the cabin, leaving Livia alone with Helane.

“_Bitch_,” Helane wheezed, flecks of blood appearing at her lips. “I will _find _you.” Then she turned her eyes toward Livia. She lifted one shaking arm toward the bookshelf, but then curled inward around a wracking spasm of pain.

Livia gazed at the door to the cabin where Lerisa had departed, then at the blue-green bottle. Then at Helane, writhing in agony on the floor.

“I'm no pirate,” she said to Helane. “I do understand the poetic justice of letting you die by your own poison, but I'm no poet, either. No one should suffer like this, no matter how evil. And everyone deserves a chance at redemption.”

Helane stared at her, eyes blank with agony.

“How old are you, Helane?” Livia said softly. “Be honest.”

Helane struggled to draw breath. “Thirty… s-six,” she stammered.

“Yeah,” said Livia. “You've had plenty of chances.” She drew her sword and plunged it through Helane’s heart.

…

Lerisa’s crew needed a few days to recover from their ordeal, and Kaleen was kind enough (or clever enough) to let them use the _Spearhead_ as shelter. A ship that was missing a crew, and a crew that was missing a ship. It was a match made in heaven: the only ingredient that remained was enough money to pay and feed everyone on the journey to Betnikh. And with Lerisa here to help plan the heist, Captain Kaleen seemed confident that the money was as good as in the bag.

During the brief hiatus in heist-related activity, Livia worked on her armor under the smith Falbert’s supervision and also began to make discreet inquiries around town, trying to find out who was “connected” enough to help her follow a trail back to recent news about the Imperial Legions.

The news about the empire wasn’t good. From what she gathered, the entire province of Cyrodiil was no longer safe for civilians, and not only because of the aftermath of the Soulburst. Varen Aquilarios had been lost when the Soulburst occurred – in fact speculation was that his death had somehow either been caused by the event or _had caused it_ – and while his widow Clivia Tharn was technically Empress Regent still, in reality three factions were battling to claim the Ruby Throne for themselves in a brutal war. 

This Daggerfall Covenant -- the alliance between Bretons, Orcs, and Redguards that Kaleen so scrupulously honored -- seemed to be the only faction whose goal was to restore the empire to the way it had been in its golden age. The high elves’ Aldmeri Dominion felt that their kind should occupy the Imperial throne, and the best Livia could work out, the dark elves’ Ebonheart Pact wanted to dissolve the empire entirely and use Cyrodiil as nothing more than a central location from which to strictly limit the practice of magic and religion throughout Tamriel.

Through a chain of gossip leading Livia from one well-connected person to another in Port Hunding, she finally found someone who had more than a blank look to give her when she mentioned the name Aiax Adolphus.

“Only Aiax I know,” said Magaza, the old orc who made poisons at Doom and Draughts, “is Aiax White-Eye. Absolute beast of a man my guild hires sometimes as muscle.”

_White-Eye_. Livia’s heart leapt. Adolphus had worn an eye patch to spare his soldiers the sight of what was under it, but sometimes when it was just the two of them he hadn’t bothered with it. She remembered the milky orb and the scar that cut through it… a scar people had joked she was trying to emulate when she nearly lost her own eye in – damn it. When had that happened? Where?

“I think that might be him,” Livia said. “He’s an old friend of mine. I used to… work for him. You mentioned a guild… could someone in your guild help me get in touch with him?”

Magaza raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“You’re headed to Betnikh, right?”

“That’s the plan. If all goes well, we’ll be setting sail in a few days.” 

“Promise to deliver a message for me when you go, and in the meantime I’ll see about finding out where White-Eye’s working these days. I don’t normally work for nothing but a promise, but I know your type, and I bet you’d sooner break your fingers than your word.”

“You have my word,” Livia said, relieved it was nothing more complicated or expensive than a message. After a moment’s hesitation, she put out her hand to clasp the orc’s. “I’ll get your message wherever it needs to go.”

***

The cloth tied around Livia’s eyes was thick and black and smelled inexplicably of lemon. The scent was pleasant enough, and her escort was surprisingly gentle for an Orc, but she did not at all enjoy having her vision stolen from her. The blindfold was, however, a condition of the meeting between herself and this well-connected member of Magaza’s “guild.” For Livia, the word “guild” had formerly had only neutral-to-positive associations for her. It occurred to her now that the person she was about to meet was probably not a member of a guild of alchemists.

She couldn’t be sure, but she strongly suspected the Orc was taking an unnecessarily circuitous route. Magaza needn’t have bothered. Two or three quick turns with that blindfold on, and she might as well have been back in Coldharbour.

Eventually she was guided with infinite care down a flight of steps into a place that had a musty, “underground” smell, but might have been a cave or a wine cellar for all she knew. Her sense of smell wasn’t the keenest, and the citrusy scent wafting from the blindfold only further muddled things.

“Here she is,” said Magaza, and pressed her gently into a sitting position on a hard but reasonably comfortable chair. It had a back she could lean against, and so she did.

“Interesting,” said another voice. Male, deep and velvety, with a distinct accent that didn’t ring an immediate bell.

“You think so?” Magaza retorted. “Dull as dishwater if you ask me.”

“No, no, I assure you,” said the dark, velvety voice. “This entire situation is… interesting in the extreme. Even more interesting than Balisi led me to believe.” A hand landed lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Something felt decidedly _ strange _ about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “You are the one they call ‘Lucky Liv’, yes?”

“I’ve been assured no one actually calls me that,” Livia said dryly. This elicited a deep, quiet chuckle. “And what should I call you? Or should I not?”

“You may call this one Kerushi,” he said, removing his hand. _ This one_. A Khajiit, then. She hadn’t spoken to many, aside from Hasan, the old graying sea-legend who’d apparently emptied the water out of her lungs after Kaleen pulled her aboard the _ Spearhead_.

“Pleased to meet you, Kerushi,” she said.

“Kerushi-dar,” Mazara corrected. “Think of the ‘dar’ as sort of a ‘sir’ or ‘Mr.’ Be respectful. This man has been in the guild quite a while, and his reach is very long.”

“This one appreciates your respect, Magaza-daro. But no offense was taken; she is not one of us, and to her I am nothing, yes? This one must _ earn _ respect, before he expects to be honored with titles. Now. Leave us, Magaza. This one will send for you when we are finished.”

“I-- what?” Magaza snorted. “Fine.” Her steps could be heard thumping up the stairs. A door closed, or a trap door, Livia couldn’t tell.

“Now,” said Kerushi-dar. It sounded as though he were pacing lightly. “It is good that you have a name to use with these pirates, Lucky Liv. But if you tell this one what you are called in the eyes of the law, Kerushi may be better able to help you.”

Livia inclined her head, though she couldn’t be sure if it was in exactly the right direction. “My full name is Livia Verrus,” she said, “but you can call me whatever you wish.”

“And why is it, Livia Verrus,” -- his purring accent made music of her name: _Lee-vee-a Verr-rrooss_ \-- “that you wish to find Aiax White-Eye? As it happens, Kerushi does not know this man, and yet happens to know exactly where you might find him. What an interesting turn of events, yes?”

“That is… odd, yes.”

“Unfortunately, this one hesitates to speak freely to you. The word around Port Hunding is that Lucky Liv, like her Captain Kaleen, is of a particularly… _ righteous _ and _ heroic _ nature. Now, my fellow guild members are all good people, with honor of a _ sort_, but we do not always operate precisely within the letter of the law, when the letter of the law is unjust... or interferes with our business. This one would hate to hear that Aiax White-Eye, who is apparently a trusted occasional contractor to our guild, had come to any harm because of his associations.”

“I wish him the absolute opposite of harm,” said Livia earnestly. “I used to... work for him, and… I’ve found myself in a bit of a strange situation. I just … honestly I just need his advice. He’s one of the few people I trust. And I have no idea how to find him these days.”

“There are many less complex means than this, by which a person might put someone on notice that he is sought. One might, for example, distribute flyers. One might ride to this person’s most familiar haunts and seek him in person.” The hand returned to her shoulder. “When a woman canvasses rather… _ colorful _third parties for a man’s location, it tends to give the impression -- please forgive the ungenerous assumption -- that the woman does not wish the man to know she is looking for him. And while there are many reasons why a woman might wish to find a man without his knowing he is being sought, less than half of these are things with which Kerushi would consider involving himself. And so this one is afraid he will need more information from you.”

“I wish I could give you more,” said Livia in frustration. “I honestly do. But part of the problem is that I had… a sort of accident, and I honestly barely even remember who I _ am_, aside from the name. That’s where I thought he could help. He’s one of the few people I remember.”

For a moment, Kerushi’s grip tightened fractionally on her shoulder. Then he took his hand away completely. He was silent for a moment.

“So,” he murmured then, seemingly half to himself. “The dog hunts the fox, and the dragon hunts the dog. Should the cat help the dragon? It is tempting, this one admits.”

Livia waited patiently for Kerushi to say something that made sense to her.

“Would you be willing to owe this one a favor?” Kerushi asked.

Livia sighed. “I already owe Magaza courier duty just for bringing me here. But sure. I mean, what choice do I have?”

“This quarry you seek... he seeks prey of his own. This prey is precious to Kerushi, and he does not wish to see her harmed. This one is unsure of _ your _ prey’s motives.”

“He’s not my prey; he’s my friend.”

“Your friend’s motives,” Kerushi amended agreeably. “If this one helps you to find Aiax White-Eye, will you help to keep Kerushi’s friend safe? He would not see her come to harm, or have her privacy invaded if she wishes to remain undiscovered. So if, with Kerushi’s help, you are able to find your friend, all this one asks is that you tell him to stop hunting Kerushi’s friend. If your friend’s reasons for hunting her turn out to be as noble and guileless as yours, then perhaps nothing need be done, and you can all have a nice dinner together and everyone can pretend they have never met Kerushi. Is this agreeable to you?”

“I…” Livia hesitated. “This is hard. Promising to help someone I don’t know? Without even knowing why White-Eye is looking for her? She could have murdered his infant son for all I know.”

“She did not.”

“Am I supposed to guess every crime she could possibly have committed and have you tell me yes or no?”

“This one would prefer that you not. This one does not even know the list, for certain; he cannot watch his friends every moment.”

Livia sighed heavily.

“This one does believe, however, that if you knew this friend of Kerushi’s, if you spoke to her, you might find that you also wished to protect her, and understood her desire for privacy.”

“Can I get her name, at least?”

There was a brief silence. Then a low laugh. “Ah, you cannot see this one shake his head. No, you may not. She is a Redguard woman. Your friend will know which Redguard woman you mean, if you ask him to please stop hunting her.”

"Uh... her name wouldn't be Tash, would it?"

"No."

“What if he tells me his reasons for hunting her, and they’re very good reasons, and I think I ought to help him find her?”

“Then you will remember that she is a friend of the Khajiit who made this reunion possible for you, and you will remember your sense of honor, and you will not do anything that would upset this one. Especially since this one, as our mutual friend Magaza put it so very sweetly, has a _ long reach_.”

Livia shuddered, and felt a sudden craving for a bath. Just how deep into nests of sapient vermin was she going to have to dive before she found her way to Adolphus? Would she even recognize what was left of herself, when this was all over?

“Fine,” she said. “Whatever you say. If your information leads me to Aiax White-Eye, then I promise I will do everything in my power to keep your Redguard friend from coming to harm. You have my word.” She held out her hand.

She felt Kerushi’s hand in hers: warm and covered in neat, silken fur. He gripped her for a moment firmly, then let her go.

“This one could tell you where Aiax White-eye was last sighted, but that would be less helpful to you than to tell you where Kerushi’s friend is. Because eventually, the dog will find her scent, yes? Kerushi is led to understand that he is a very good dog. And in this way you may intercept him, rather than chasing his tail.”

“That makes sense,” said Livia. “Where is your friend?”

There was a long silence. For a moment Livia thought that the Khajiit was not going to answer after all. But then he spoke, very softly, and very near her ear.

“_ Daggerfall_,” he purred.

***

“So, you’re still in one piece,” said Lambur as Livia approached Kaleen’s hideout under a great red moon just starting to wane.

Kaleen’s orc first mate was almost pretty, with a thick brown braid and surprisingly delicate features. One only had to overlook the tusks… and the fact that she was green. 

“So far,” Livia agreed with false cheer. “They don’t call me Lucky Liv for nothing.”

“No one really calls you that,” said Lambur.

Livia kept her smile in place. “All right, then. May I go inside? Captain Kaleen summoned me.”

“Right,” said Lambur crossly. “Go on in and let her finish trying to jam her nose up Fahara’jad’s arse so we can get out of here and get me back to my clan.”

Livia gave the disgruntled orc some space as she entered Kaleen’s hideout. The warehouse was dimly lit but for a few lamps strategically placed to give it a strangely romantic air, like a pricey tavern. If Lambur was the bouncer at this metaphorical tavern, cabin girl Nicolene on the lower floor was the perky blonde hostess. 

“They’re all upstairs,” she said with a smile. Her feet were propped on a crate, and she seemed to be writing in some sort of journal. “Go on up!” The staircase looked (and felt) none too sturdy -- at least Livia hadn’t worn her armor this evening.

“And there she is!” Captain Kaleen said dramatically as Livia appeared at the top of the steps. “Lucky Liv. Without whom none of this would be possible.”

There was a smattering of applause at varying levels of sarcasm from the assembled conspirators. Tash, Jakarn, and Lerisa were there… and strangely enough, Neramo, who was tinkering with his Dwemer spider in a corner and largely ignoring the others.

“Thanks to Liv,” said Kaleen, “the _Spearhead_ has a spectacular crew. And now it’s time to make the money to pay everyone what they deserve.”

“Finally going to tell us what we’re actually stealing, huh?” said Jakarn dryly. His eyes were mostly on Lerisa, who was flipping a coin in the air and catching it again and again. “Who’s the target?” he asked.

“Headman Bhosek,” said Kaleen. “We’re going to steal his shipping logs.”

Lerisa caught the coin she’d been flipping and held it still in her fist as though to silence it. “Shipping logs?” she echoed incredulously.

“The key to our fortune, my friend!” said Kaleen, undeterred. “King Fahara’jad will pay a pretty penny for proof that Bhosek is still profiting off the raiding of Breton vessels.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Livia asked, noting the annoyed expressions on the faces of everyone but Neramo, who didn’t appear to be listening.

“His envoy, Tharwab, who’s in town waiting with a coin purse the size of a melon. I’ve already spoken to him. As soon as we turn over the sailing logs, he showers us with gold.”

This seemed to pacify everyone but Tash, who seemed to like being annoyed for its own sake.

“The trick,” Kaleen said, “will be actually getting into the palace safely, stealing the logs, and getting out with them. That’s where you clever people come in. The papers are in a lockbox on the top floor. Bhosek has the only key.”

“That key he wears around his neck?” Jakarn said, pushing off the wall and looking suddenly interested. “So that’s what that’s for. It’ll be a cinch to steal if someone can get close enough. And I might have an idea how someone could get close enough.” 

At this, he winked at Tash. She winked back. Livia scowled at them both, but neither of them even glanced her way.

“Good,” said Kaleen. “One problem left: the box itself is always guarded. We need a way to incapacitate the guard _without_ killing him. I don’t want the king’s envoy hearing that we murdered some poor idiot for doing his job.”

Neramo, who Livia could have sworn had stopped paying attention, suddenly held up a small rod with peculiar coils and protrusions. “I’ve been looking for someone to test this bit of Clanker’s innards on a living subject,” he said. It isn’t lethal, but it extremely incapacitating when used properly.”

“I’ll do it,” said Livia, who wasn’t particularly worried about the safety of Bhosek’s Fists, whether they were _doing their jobs_ or not. “Just walk me through how it works before I go.”

Neramo turned his peculiar gaze to her: small pupils adrift in pale honey-colored irises, almost no whites. “I hope you’ll let me know if there are any lingering effects,” he said. “Twitching mainly. I’m quite curious about the twitching.”

“Right,” Livia said slowly.

“So that takes care of that part,” said Kaleen. “Lerisa, if you can figure out a way to disguise Liv as a palace servant, that should make her virtually invisible. She can find the key, shock the guard, get that log, stroll casually out.”

Lerisa nodded, flipping her coin again. “I can meet her outside the palace with some clothes. No problem.”

“And I’ll meet her in back with the key,” said Tash.

“Perfect!” Kaleen rubbed her hands together. “Lambur and I will have the ship ready to set sail when you all return.”

***

The towers of Bhosek’s palace could be seen from all over Port Hunding, but Livia had not fully been able to appreciate their beauty until she was close enough to take in their intricate painted designs, the gilding, the tremendous _scale_ of them. All of it was absolutely wasted on a glorified street thug like Bhosek.

His servants, like his Fists, all wore blue and brown, though their garb was plainer and more muted. The clothes in the sack Lerisa casually passed to Livia on her approach must have been lifted from inside the palace somewhere, as they were identical down to the last button. Lerisa clearly had an uncanny eye for body measurements; the clothes fit so well that it seemed like Lerisa might just be showing off. Livia tucked Neramo’s disturbing Dwemer rod into the back of her trouser waist, careful to keep the business end pointed up so the back of her shirt could drape over it loosely.

The guards barely glanced at her as they let her through the grand front doors into the breathtaking domed entryway. There was a large, cushioned, thronelike chair in the center; the sitting area was surrounded by a shallow moat in the tiled floor. The chair was currently unoccupied. An abandoned stringed instrument leaned against a table beside it, and an irritable looking scribe loitered nearby, writing furiously. Everyone in the palace – not just the servants but the well-dressed guests as well – seemed utterly miserable, despite the grandeur of their surroundings. 

Now that she was inside, Livia noticed how well-tailored all the other servants’ uniforms were, and realized that without the attention to the fit of her own uniform Livia would have attracted attention. As it was – just as Kaleen had predicted -- she seemed to be virtually invisible. Even the other servants barely gave her a second glance; staff turnover must have been high.

Tash had said she’d meet Livia “out back,” so Livia kept going straight until she found the back door and slipped out of it as easily as she’d slipped in the front. Steps led down into a lush courtyard with a sweeping view across the desert to the abandoned mines in the mountains. Who needed something so drab and honest as mining to keep a town’s coffers full when you could just steal from every ship that came near?

Toward the rear was a square tiled patio with carpets and pillows spread over it. Lying there out cold was a man who could only have been Bhosek: a beefy hunk of Redguard with thick ropes of black hair and expensive clothing currently in disarray. His head was on the lap of a scantily-clad young woman Livia recognized all too well.

Livia couldn’t even bring herself to be disgusted; she was too alarmed at the sight of Bloody Bhosek himself lying there within spitting distance. Trusting in her servant-invisibility, she made her way quietly toward them and pretended to be straightening pillows.

“I drugged him,” Tash whispered. “He’ll be out for a while.” Then, in a more conversational tone, “Servant, would you mind taking this somewhere for safekeeping?” Tash handed her a small cloth pouch. In it, Livia could feel the weight of metal. The key, surely. Livia clutched the pouch tightly in her left hand, since his servants’ clothing, for obvious reasons, was not equipped with pockets of any size, anywhere.

“How do you plan to get out of here in time?” Livia whispered. Tash just rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. Livia pointlessly straightened a few more pillows, careful not to bend in such a way that the Dwemer rod might get dislodged from where her trouser-waist held it snug against the small of her back. Then she headed back inside.

The upper floor of the palace wasn’t particularly extensive, as palaces went, but the easiest way of finding the lockbox was actually via the man set to guard it. He was a huge, long haired Nord who apparently objected to the warm climate on Stros M’Kai, to judge by his refusal to wear a shirt. It might have been distracting to a different woman. As it was, she quickly spotted what must be the right lockbox. She slipped the key out of its pouch, closed it into her left fist, and made her way over toward the table it sat on as casually as possible, pretending to dust something near it with the empty pouch.

Maybe it was the tense aura around her that drew the Nord’s attention, or maybe he was low-class enough himself not to find servants invisible, but either way, she was unable to get close enough to either him or the lockbox before he addressed her.

“You’ve got some arms on you,” he commented, with a thick Nord accent made even muddier by alcohol from the sound of it. “Like a proper Nord woman. But you look Breton or something, in the face. No, Imperial maybe? What are you?”

“Just a servant,” she said.

“Oh don’t be modest,” he said. “I can tell you must have some sort of training regimen. Where do you get those warrior muscles?”

“I do some smithing,” she said. Oh, scales of Akatosh, he was coming over to feel her bicep now. He was close enough for her to whip the Dwemer rod and smite him, but she seemed to remember being told never to touch anyone who’d been shocked by arcane lightning, and she imagined Dwemer lightning might work by the same principle. He’d have to let go of her arm first, and he seemed to show no signs of wanting to do that.

“Mmm,” he said. “Hey, what time is your shift over? I’d sure like to see more of those muscles.”

Livia very carefully bit back the first response that came to her mind, which was something along the lines of _are you kidding me_? followed by a knee to the groin. What would Tash do, what would Tash do…

“Mm, I don’t know,” she said in her brattiest voice. “I don’t compare muscles with just anyone, you know.” Setting down the empty pouch she’d been dusting with, she pointed downward and made a little circle in the air with her finger. “Let’s see those _glutes_,” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“Butt muscles,” she clarified.

“Oh!” He brightened, then turned around and… oh wow, she had never seen or wanted to see a man’s gluteal muscles do quite _that_ little dance before. By the Eight. She whipped the rod out from behind her back and gave him a quick jab directly in the cheek. He stiffened and grunted and fell over like a tree with such a loud thud that she was sure she’d alerted half the castle staff. Plenty of twitching to report to Neramo, too, but she didn’t stop to take notes; she had no idea how long she had to open the box.

The key fit, it opened easily, and inside was a clothbound book of records. She grabbed it and then realized it was hefty enough that there was no way she’d be able to get out of there without someone noticing her carrying it. Mind racing, she closed and relocked the box, then ducked into the nearest room to look for something to hide the book in.

Not a moment too soon, because she heard someone hurrying to the top of the stairs as she frantically searched the room. A bedroom. Absolutely no conveniently located empty sacks or baskets.

“Hey, you all right?” said a male voice. Then, “This can’t be good,” and the feet hurried back down the stairs.

Livia grabbed a pillow from the bed, yanked off the pillow case, and stuffed the book inside it. She tried to wad it up to make it look like it might be on its way to the laundry, and then prayed to the Divines for inconspicuousness as she headed for the stairs.

Two of Bhosek’s Fists nearly knocked her over on their way up.

“Watch where you’re going!” said the bigger of the two, an Orc, but he kept going. Livia tried not to audibly exhale in relief, and also tried very hard not to hurry her steps in any way beyond the purposeful tread of a servant heading for the laundry.

“Hey!” called someone behind her. “Servant girl!” She froze, tried not to panic. She stopped on the stairs and turned around.

The smaller of the two Fists, a scarred Redguard, approached her. “Did you see what happened to that Nord?”

There was no way she could pretend she hadn’t seen; she’d been right there.

“None of my business who drinks on the job,” she said. “Just collecting laundry. Don’t want any trouble.”

“Useless,” said the Redguard, and returned upstairs.

Livia did not run. She walked purposefully but calmly toward the front door, purposefully and calmly out of it with a Dwemer rod in the back of her pants and Bhosek’s shipping logs wadded up in a pillowcase, and tried not to wonder if Tash was going to make it out okay.

Once she was far enough from Bhosek’s palace to feel reasonably safe, she turned her steps toward the docks and let her mind turn to her other worries. She had to get off this island, and not to Betnikh. To Daggerfall.

She had no idea how she was going to talk Kaleen into this change of plan, but she would do whatever it took to find her way back to herself. Because without some idea of how she fit into the world, and without some allies she could trust with the whole truth, there was no way she was going to be able to address the biggest problem of all: that whatever Molag Bal had been plotting in Coldharbour, that terrible plan was still in motion. And virtually no one in this world even knew it was happening.

***

Of _course_ Tash got back to the _Spearhead_ before Livia somehow. Livia was surrounded by show-offs. The girl was leaning smugly over the railing watching the show on the dock below.

King Fahara’jad’s envoy, Tharwab, was indeed not a figment of Kaleen’s imagination, and he did indeed have an obscenely large sack of gold to present to Kaleen once he flipped through the book Livia dutifully handed over. She had come directly from the palace, and so she was embarrassingly still wearing her servant uniform. Her own clothes were still wadded up in a bush somewhere outside the palace. There was no way she was going back for them.

“You have done the Daggerfall Covenant a great service,” said Tharwab. “King Fahara'jad will be pleased to punish Headman Bhosek, in order to demonstrate that his loyalty to High King Emeric remains beyond doubt. I will be certain to mention you by name in my report, Captain Kaleen.”

The poor woman looked like she might spontaneously combust from happiness. Livia waited enough time to be polite, but not enough time for the glow to fade, before she brought up her own issue.

“So,” she said to Kaleen. “I know you said you had business in Betnikh… but as it turns out I have some pretty time-sensitive business myself, in Daggerfall. I don’t suppose I could convince you to sail there first?”

Kaleen frowned. “We’d be sailing right past Betnikh,” she said. “You don’t at least have time for me to drop off Lambur first?”

Livia shook her head. “If Lambur goes ashore, everyone’s going to want to. Just to stretch their legs, get a good meal, and so on. And there’s no guarantee they’ll be easy to round up again; I mean, look at this lot. Half of them are used to having their own ship, and some of them – you’re taking Neramo? Seriously? Anyway. If I’m delayed too much I may not be able to get to Daggerfall before the guy I’m trying to find. I can’t afford to miss him. He might be the one person who can help me.”

“Help you with what?”

Livia considered Kaleen for a moment. She knew she didn’t trust her with the whole story, but maybe she could trust her with part of it.

“He’s the one person I remember from my life before you found me. My memory got messed up. I went to a lot of trouble to find out where he’d be, and Daggerfall is my one and only lead. If I miss him, I may never find out who I really am or where I belong.”

Kaleen studied her. “You look like you’re telling the truth,” she said, “or at least believe you are. Fine. Lambur’s waited this long, she can wait a few more days. How much more mad at me can she possibly get, right?”

Kaleen slapped Livia on the back, and Livia felt herself smile a little. Things were finally going her way. Of course, once she found Adolphus, there was no telling what she’d find out from him. All she knew was that she could trust him. She felt this on such a bone-deep level that she didn’t doubt it for a moment. What he thought of _her_ these days though… well. That wasn’t even worth worrying about. One disaster at a time.


	3. Aldmeri Dominion Novella 1: The Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fayawen and Vari fall out of the sky into the arms of a dashing and mysterious Khajiit -- and in the middle of a political standoff between the sea elves and the Aldmeri Dominion. Only the cleverness of Razum-dar and his two new agents can prevent a bloodbath.

Morning Star, CE 582

Fayawen clung to the Khajiit woman as she fell, fell through clouds and sheeting rain, both of them too stunned to scream bloody murder as they really ought to have done. When they hit the water, the force slammed them apart. The slap of the water forced the air out of Fayawen’s lungs in a painful rush, and she sank like a stone.

_Great_, she thought. _All that effort to escape Coldharbour, and I’m just going to die anyway._

She held her breath for as long as she could, tried to figure out which way was up and which was down, but her body just turned over and over in the water, and salt water stung her eyes and nose and eventually filled her mouth and lungs.

_This is a terrible way to die_, was her last thought. _Definitely avoiding this in the future_.

Later, probably not much later, she was aware of someone’s arm under her ribs, pulling her. Someone strong. Trying to keep her head above water even though there was so much rain coming down it barely mattered.

“Did you find her?” she asked whoever it was, blinded by rain. “Did you see—” Then she got a mouth full of water and couldn’t say more.

She didn’t exactly lose consciousness, but she was out of her mind for a while, floating in a sort of feverish haze. Someone was carrying her now, over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. At one point she coughed up a disgusting amount of water, and he said, “Good, that’s good. Next time, maybe not on this one’s tail.”

Then she really did lose consciousness. The next thing she was aware of was the sound of rain hammering against stone. She could smell its damp fury — the air was drenched with it — but somehow none of it fell on her. It was pitch dark. She shivered and nestled closer to someone – it must be her! From the feel of it, yes, the plump spotted Khajiit from Coldharbour! She was warm, if a bit damp. When Fayawen snuggled up to her in relief, her own teeth stopped chattering, and the Khajiit started purring in her sleep. Between that and the sudden heavy, soundless fall of a dry blanket over them both, Fayawen went out like a baby.

***

She woke starving, which meant she wasn’t dead. She sat up, and saw that she was in a cot inside some sort of broken and abandoned watchtower, sheltered underneath its stone spiral stair. The Khajiit woman was already awake, wearing a homespun robe she’d most certainly not been wearing before. She was examining a pile of weapons.

“’Ello,” said Fayawen. “Can you talk, now that we’re alive?”

The Khajiit picked up a sturdy wooden staff, then turned to look at Fayawen with soft, deep blue eyes. She had the sort of face that was crafted by the very Earth Bones to look innocent and harmless, but Fayawen had seen her throw a fireball or two in Coldharbour.

“_Are_ we alive?” the Khajiit said in a raspy, smoky voice. “This one has her doubts.”

“I’m Fayawen, by the way. We sort of skipped that bit.”

“Vari,” the Khajiit replied, bowing her head slightly. “There are clothes here. Perhaps you should put something on?”

Fayawen looked down at herself. She was stark naked. Well, Vari knew the red hair was natural now. So, she supposed, did their rescuer.

“Did tha’ man undress me?” she said, incensed. “I know I ‘ad clothes on when we left, er… _the other place_.” It seemed somehow dangerous to speak it out loud.

“He undressed us both, it seems. Vari wishes she had been awake for that. Did you _see_ him?”

“Not really my type,” said Fayawen. “I’m not a ‘cat person,’ er, not romantically I mean. You’re awright.” She considered. “I coughed up seawater all over ‘is tail.”

“How very intimate,” said Vari.

“You’re a looney,” said Fayawen with a smile. “’Frow me some trousers or somefin’, will ya? And let’s see wot’s out there.”

The ruins of an Imperial fort were out there, flanked by imposing statues. Balmy breezes apologetically kissed sparse tropical grass and trees that had been battered by the hurricane the day before. Fayawen and her new friend had apparently slept through the night in the smallest and northernmost tower on the outskirts of the ruin; most of the buzz of activity was taking place to the south of them, where the bulk of the remaining stonework looked even further south, out over the sun-gilded sea.

On the broken wall that marked the main body of the fort leaned a Khajiit who could only be their rescuer. Tall and tawny, dressed in elegant leathers, a striking upright ridge of bright red hair bristling down the center of his head between his rounded ears.

“Good morning, damp ones!” he said cheerfully. “Come here, come here. You both took nasty blows to the head during the hurricane; let this one make sure you are both still of sound mind.” As they drew closer, he said in a very different, quieter tone, “Try to look casual, yes? Give no one reason to look this way.”

“Who are you?” Fayawen said, quietly.

“This one is called Razum-dar: a simple Khajiit who was fortunate enough to witness two women falling from the sky during a hurricane. Would one of you care to tell Raz how you accomplished this feat? He could make a fortune selling tickets to such a thing.”

“Wouldn’t believe me if I tol’ you,” Fayawen said. Beside her, Vari remained silent, her large blue eyes fixed on Razum-dar.

“You would be surprised,” said Razum-dar, “what this one has seen and would believe. Also, this one cannot help you to lie convincingly if he does not know the truth. You would do well to accept his help, as this island is currently crawling with Maormer pirates and Dominion marines -- both in very bad moods.”

“What’s a Maormer?” said Fayawen, wrinkling her nose. She thought she’d heard of every kind of elf there was.

“A sea elf,” said Razum-dar. “These grouchy fish-colored people are not seen on the mainland, but they are a plague upon the southern seas. Maormer is the proper name, just as Bosmer is the proper name for wood elves such as yourself. But this one cannot help but notice you have not answered his question. Does it regularly rain Bosmer and Khajiit on this island? Or is there a yet stranger story?”

Fayawen looked to Vari, but the other woman was still staring mutely at Razum-dar. “Fine,” said Fayawen. “We was trapped in Cold’arbour on account of bein’ sacrificed to Molag Bal. Fell f’rough some kinda portal durin’ a slave rebellion. We got our bodies back, but I fink our souls are still in Oblivion somewhere.”

Razum-dar blinked once, and his nostrils flared. “Either you are telling the truth,” he said, “or you are the most accomplished liar Raz has ever met. Raz has met a great many liars, by the way. In any case, this one thinks he should keep you both very close.” 

“What would you want wiv’ us?” said Fayawen, narrowing her eyes. “An’ why should we trust you?”

“Raz has no answer to the second question. Trusting a strange, handsome Khajiit is, more often than not, a terrible idea. As for the first question, Raz is here on a mission of some delicacy and both of you, if not examined too closely, could easily pass for locals and go unnoticed. Raz, with his striking good looks and fancy Dominion leathers, cannot.”

Fayawen folded her arms, looking him up and down. “Wot is it you need us to do?”

“To start with, this one would like you to help the Dominion marines. So many injured, so many still missing. Come with me, so that Raz may introduce you to Commander Karinith.”

“Don’t you need our names?” Fayawen said as he started off, tail swaying.

Razum-dar halted in mid-stride and turned. “Raz was going to invent some for you, but if you wish to use your real names, be this one’s guest. Easier to remember.”

“I’m Fayawen,” she said. “And my quiet friend ‘ere is Vari.”

“Why _is_ your friend Vari so quiet?” Razum-dar asked, giving the other Khajiit an assessing glance.

“Strong silent type, I guess. Mage, though, if that’s useful.”

“It might be. And what of you, do you have useful skills?”

“I’m a fair ‘and wif a needle,” she said, “good wif animals, and oh, not to be a _stereotype_ or nuffing, but I can put an arrow in yer eye at two ‘undred paces.”

Raz’s eyebrow twitched upward. “This one will find you a bow,” he said. “Please point it _away _from Raz’s eyes. From now on, you are a local hunter who supplies the plantation owners here. And you,“ here he indicated Vari, “are a plantation worker’s daughter who has ambitions to leave this backwater island and join the Mages’ Guild. You accompany your wood elf friend on her hunts to practice your spells. You are both strongly considering signing up with the Dominion military, and so I am observing you.”

“Right.” Fayawen turned a full three hundred sixty degrees as they walked, taking in the lovely, rain-soaked island. Not a jungle – too much wildflower-strewn grass and sandy open space – but decidedly tropical in climate. “Where are we, exactly?” she asked.

“Khenarthi’s Roost. An island off the shore of the border between Valenwood and Elsweyr. Mostly populated by Khajiit, and a few Bosmer, which is why you both fit in so nicely. It has one small town, some Khajiit temples, and a few moon sugar plantations. Truthfully, you are now the most interesting thing on it, but… circumstances make the island of great interest to the Dominion. We will speak more of this later, if you prove agreeable. Come, there is Commander Karinith.”

Fayawen scowled instinctively at the sight of the high elf in her Dominion uniform. Two years ago her people had agreed to join forces with the Altmer, since the Bosmer didn’t have the military might to keep the crazy Imperials from burning down half of Valenwood in their endless wars. But that didn’t mean Fayawen had to like the idea of calling Ayrenn _her_ queen. Fayawen hadn’t personally agreed to the whole Dominion thing. She wasn’t even willing to bow to the so-called “king” of Valenwood, who was nothing more than a convenient handle for the Dominion to swing her people by. Real Bosmer didn’t need a king; they took care of their own. 

The only two Bosmer Fayawen would even consider bowing to were the Silvenar and the Green Lady. Their authority was deep and mystical, tied into the Green Pact. Actual laws of nature, embodied in an epic romance between two flesh-and-blood mer. That, Fayawen could respect. And maybe envy a little. With their love as the example, was it any wonder she’d never bothered with a half-arsed union with some rotmeth-addled hunter from her village?

“Commander Karinith,” said Razum-dar warmly, “allow this one to introduce Fayawen and Vari-ko. They are considering joining the Dominion military and would like to help however they can.”

Fayawen stuck out a hand toward Karinith. “Who are you then, luv?” she said, sending Razum-dar into a coughing fit. “Besides ‘Commander Karinith’. I dunno a Commander from a salamander.”

“It’s all right,” Karinith said to Razum-dar with a note of weariness in her voice, not bothering to take Fayawen’s offered hand. “I’m not _her_ superior now, am I? Though perhaps the military isn’t her calling after all.” She then looked directly down at Fayawen. Altmer were always so _tall_. “To answer your question, I _command_ this regiment, or have since my superior was lost during the shipwreck. To put it more simply, I am in charge. If you were under my command, you would address me as ‘ma’am’ rather than ‘luv,’ if that is of interest to you.”

Fayawen glanced at Razum-dar. She realized how precarious her situation was; she hadn’t actually _meant _to be rude. But she had no idea how to pass for polite among high elves; there were so many stupid rules.

“Yes ma’am,” she said. “Bloody awful, what ‘appened to you lot. ‘Ow can I ‘elp?”

Commander Karinith softened the tiniest possible amount. “I could use a good scout, actually,” she said. “I understand your people have a knack for that sort of thing?” Her gaze seemed to encompass both Fayawen and Vari, as though they were remotely the same sort of people. To the Altmer, anyone not-Altmer was some variety of beast, and the differences in plumage didn’t matter all that much.

“Aye, I’m a good scout,” Fayawen said, and left her other thoughts to herself. “Wot needs scouting?”

“Shattered Shoals,” said Karinith. “To the west of here. Apparently named that even before several of our ships broke to pieces there. First priority is to gather intelligence on Maormer activity in the region. We managed to capture one of their little spies not far from that area. Maormer don’t travel alone, so I’d like for you two to track down his cohorts and report back, without endangering yourselves. If you happen to find any Dominion marines, direct them here to Eagle’s Strand.” Here she eyed Vari again. “I notice you carry a staff. You wouldn’t be a healer, by any chance?”

Vari blinked round blue eyes at her. “This one apologizes,” she said in her raspy-velvet voice. “Vari is no healer; she is a pyromaniac.”

Karinith looked startled. “A… oh! You mean a pyromancer,” she said.

“Right,” Vari said, with a strange, slow smile.

The commander actually looked almost like a regular person when she laughed. Razum-dar, meanwhile, had buried his face in his palm. Fayawen did feel a little bad for how much of his own credibility he’d put on the line for a couple of soulless vagrants. Why had he done that, anyway? She still couldn’t quite figure him out.

“Well,” said Karinith once she had recovered her composure. “If you find anyone who is too injured to make it back to Eagle’s Strand, whichever of you is fastest just dash back here and we can dispatch one of our healers. But as you can see,” she said, gesturing to the nearby tents crowded with groaning elves and Khajiit, “we can’t really spare anyone unless it’s a dire emergency.”

“Course,” said Fayawen. “You can count on us, ma’am.”

“Head west and stay close to the shore,” the Commander instructed.

On their way out, Fayawen spotted a cart full of corpses, mostly covered with a rough sheet. They were piled on top of each other, and she could see by the feet sticking out from under the burlap that they’d all been stripped of their Dominion uniforms. Surely they deserved better than to be loaded on a cart like cargo, even temporarily. But Fayawen had never seen so many people die at once before; she had no idea how one was supposed to respectfully deal with such a thing.

From what she’d seen in Coldharbour, she had a bad feeling she’d be getting used to piles of corpses soon.  
  
***

Fayawen’s style of scouting didn’t work too well on Khenarthi’s Roost; the trees were too spread out for her to make her way from branch to branch. She contented herself with moving quietly from one patch of good cover to another, thoroughly scoping out the area ahead with her hunter’s eyes before proceeding.

Someone had apparently failed to notify Vari what “scouting” meant, though. She just trundled along at her own pace, gawking like a tourist. Weren’t cats supposed to be sneaky?

“You know you don’t ‘ave to step on _every_ twig on the island,” Fayawen finally said to her irritably. “If you wanna let the sea elves know we’re comin’ you could just call out a nice ‘ello.”

“Is this one making too much noise?” said Vari in what sounded like genuine surprise. “Vari is not sure she has ever been told _that_ before. But then, Vari is usually sitting somewhere reading, and not wandering through the wilderness.”

“Pff, this is ‘ardly wilderness. There’s a road right over there.”

“And we are not using it, because…?”

“Because – ugh. Fine. Forget stealf. Let’s just take the road, it seems to be ‘eadin’ west.”

Honestly, since true stealth was impossible with the sunlight streaming down on their heads, maybe their best camouflage _was_ just to seem like two locals out for a stroll to the nearby temple. She could see its oddly embellished stonework distantly through the sparse trees.

Only a few paces down the road, though, she stopped. “Did you ‘ear that?”

Vari listened, but said nothing.

There it was, again. A voice, faintly. A woman’s voice.

“Can anyone ‘ear me?” the voice called. There was a definite note of distress in it.

Fayawen hurried her steps, and Vari followed close behind without asking questions. At a point where the road intersected a sandy trail leading down to the beach, a Bosmer woman leaned against a tree, looking exhausted and pained. Her hair was red, but not flame-red like Fayawen’s own, more the color of expensive Altmer wine. Her face was an absolute mess of scars, and she was built like a boxer.

“’Ave you seen any of my squad wandering about?” she asked Fayawen, seeming to instantly trust another of her own. “We were all on the Little Alkosh; it’s splinters on the rocks now.”

“Seen no one but the two of us,” Fayawen said. “You fink they all survived the ‘urricane?”

“I swear I keep ‘earin’ their voices down on the beach, but I can’t tell from which direction. The wind or the sea or somethin’, it just confuses all the sounds. And then I keep gettin’ chased away by alits, ‘cos I lost me damn sword. I’m Sergeant Firion by the way, Dominion marines.”

“Fayawen. You got chased by a wot?”

Sergeant Firion tipped her head. “You don’t know alits? Must not be from around ‘ere.” Fayawen made a note to herself under the heading Oops: Failed At Seeming Local. “Giant mouths full o’ teeth runnin around on two legs?”

Vari made a disapproving sound. “This one is familiar with them,” she said. “They look fearsome, but they are extremely flammable.”

“Go torch a few for me then,” said Firion. “And speaking of torches, see if you can find a few o’ them bottles of torchbug treacle washed up from the shipwreck. I think that’s what the alits are after. They can smell anything sweet through steel four fingers thick, swear by the Earth Bones.”

“Whatcha need it for? You ‘urt?” Fayawen was intimately familiar with the old Bosmer remedy and its bizarre sweaty-foot aftertaste. Made from bugs, not plants, to honor the Green Pact, and only worth the gulping if you were in serious pain.

“Not injured to speak of,” Firion said, “but I’ll bet my squad is, or they’d ‘ave found their way to me by now. I’ve been callin’ and pacin’ as close to that damned alit-infested beach as I dared since the wee hours. There were ‘free of ‘em. Onglorn, fancies ‘imself a knight, Edhelas is a smart-arse runt of a mage, and Nistel – she’s a backstabbin’ bitch in the best way.”

Those sounded like Bosmer names. So many of her people were jumping right on this whole Dominion thing, and look where it had gotten these four.

“Say no more,” said Fayawen. “Vari and I will go alit-hunting, and find your squad while we’re at it.”

“Y’ffre bless you.”

During their escape from Coldharbour, Fayawen hadn’t had the chance to observe Vari’s spellcasting in all its glory, as the poor Khajiit had been disoriented and in shock. Now, though, Vari hurled fireballs with wild, gleeful abandon. She lit up not only the alits – who were pretty much just as described, only Firion hadn’t mentioned they were big enough you could have _ridden_ them – but also piles of seaweed, the broken remains of crates, and the occasional palm trunk.

“This entire beach is gonna be glass by the time you’re done wif it,” Fayawen said, torn between alarm and amusement.

“You flatter this one,” Vari purred.

Fayawen drew the line, though, when Vari found a bottle of torchbug treacle, immediately smashed it, and tried setting fire to the puddle it made.

“Hey, we need that!” she snapped, grabbing Vari by the wrist. 

Vari neither fought nor attempted to slip away, just blinked large blue eyes at her, claws still smoldering. “This one wondered if it would burn like kindlepitch,” she said innocently. “Think of the tremendous explosives we could make!”

“Well it don’t,” said Fayawen, pointing to the feebly steaming puddle. “I could ‘ave told you that if you’d just asked me instead of randomly smashing things.”

“Vari behaves unpredictably at times,” she said sweetly. “It is part of her charm.”

Fayawen released her wrist and sighed. “You better ‘ope you’re charming,” she said. “It remains to be seen.”

“If not,” Vari said slyly, “perhaps you can find yourself another reanimated dead person to be friends with.”

Fayawen snorted. “I’ve been finkin’ about that,” she said as they continued down the beach. She thought she heard someone groan faintly, and swerved in that direction. “Wot do you suppose ‘appened to all the others? The ones wot didn’t ‘old ‘ands wif us when we jumped? Reckon they all got scattered to the four winds but still alive—or whatever sort of alive we are now? Or are we the only ones who made it?”

“There is no way to know,” Vari rasped solemnly. “Tamriel is a very big place, and perhaps we were the only ones lucky enough to be dropped over water. This one does not think we would have fared so well if we had been dropped, for example, in the mouth of Red Mountain or in the middle of the Alik’r Desert.”

“I ‘ave no idea wot either of those places are,” said Fayawen. “I always wanted to travel, though. I guess gettin’ killed and then dropped into the sea is as good an excuse as any.”

“There!” Vari cried suddenly. “This one sees a wood elf!”

The wood elf turned out to be the ‘runty mage,’ Edhelas, coughing up blood from cracked ribs. A few minutes’ walk north along the shore they found Nistel, who had ripped all the skin off her palms trying to hold onto the rigging during the storm. And further north still, Onglorn, who was bearing the pain of a broken leg by murmuring prayers to each of the gods in turn. A bit of “glow juice” sorted them all out well enough to get them moving, but Onglorn had another assignment for his rescuers.

“Lieutenant Gelin was on the _Little Alkosh_ as well,” the heavily-armored Bosmer said. His consonants and vowels were nearly as crisp as an Altmer’s. “He’s the only reason I’m still breathing. Please see if you can find him. He said something about checking out a cave to the north as a possible shelter, but then he never came back.”

“Cave to the north,” said Fayawen. “We’re on it. If I find ‘im I’ll send ‘im… to that big rock formation over there.” She pointed north. “Decent landmark, so you can all find each other.”

“May the gods bless you,” he said, bowing his head gratefully.

Fayawen gave him a tight-lipped smile. She was pretty sure the gods had washed their hands of her a while back, judging by the fact that they’d somehow let her die. She still had no idea how that happened.

“’Ey,” she said quietly to Vari once they were out of the marines’ earshot. “’Ow did you die? Do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Vari. Fayawen waited, but no more seemed to be forthcoming.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” she prompted.

“No,” said Vari. “Do you?”

“I honestly don’ remember. Last fing I remember is…” 

She cast her mind back, but there was no “last day,” even. She remembered her life as a series of days very like the other. Hunting in the forest during the day, listening to the Spinner’s tales in the evenings. Secretly stalking merchants and travelers and admiring all their shiny belongings, longing for them strangely but knowing she had nowhere to keep them even if she stole them. Her life hadn’t been going in any particular direction, and so she didn’t have a way of measuring how long ago her memories stopped.

“…nothing much,” she finished lamely. “Just ordinary regular life… and then somehow Cold’arbour.”

Vari was silent for a moment, and then said, “Consider yourself lucky.”

Fayawen waited again for more, and again was disappointed.

As they approached the rock formation Fayawen had pointed out to the marines as a landmark, she spotted two things almost simultaneously: one, the cave Lieutenant Gelin must have been scouting as possible shelter, and two, a ship beached farther north along the shore. An _entire_ ship. Did it belong to the sea elves Karinith had been looking for? Fayawen wouldn’t have known how to tell one of their ships from any other, since aside from almost drowning in it she had next to no experience with the sea.

“This one has a bad feeling about that cave,” Vari murmured. “Please be careful, friend.”

“So we’re still friends?” said Fayawen. “Even though I called you annoyin’?”

Vari’s ears flicked backward. “You said no such thing.”

Fayawen blinked. “Oh, didn’t I? Guess I was just finkin’ it.”

“Well, _now_ you’ve said it,” said Vari, ears flattening.

“Awwww.” Fayawen stopped and patted her on the back. “It’s okay. Everyone’s annoyin’ sometimes. And most of ‘em aren’t ‘alf as useful and cuddly.”

“Cuddly?” Vari echoed.

“Yes, we were cuddled up together all night. Naked, I guess. Oy, wot Razum-dar musta ‘fought of us!”

Vari’s eyes grew round. “Oh dear. Next time we see him, you must tell him that we are not lovers, and that this one prefers the company of men! Handsome, quick-witted, agile Khajiit men.”

“Tell ‘im yourself, you rank coward,” laughed Fayawen. But as they reached the cave entrance, her laughter stopped as though someone had shoved a cork in it, and she threw a hand back to stop Vari from blundering farther in.

The cave was lit with hundreds upon hundreds of candles, most burned down to stubs, their flames eerily reflected in the shallow water that covered the cave floor. The flickering illumination revealed the other thing that covered the cave floor: bones. Piles of skulls, men or mer from the look of them, and scattered everywhere else bones and fragments of bones, some trampled and cracked nearly to dust. Though the candles had been lit fairly recently, it looked as though this cave had been used in dark ritual magic for decades, maybe even centuries.

Fayawen held a finger to her lips, then gestured for Vari to wait where she stood. She did not have to ask twice; Vari looked not at all eager to proceed further.

Fayawen moved silently, barely rippling the water, her eyes adjusting quickly to the unsteady light. Along the walls of the cave were wooden posts, some with ropes wound around them. One had a skeleton tied to it; the flesh hadn’t rotted away naturally but had clearly been picked clean, and possibly within the last couple of days. Not recently enough to be Gelin, though.

Fayawen’s relief was short lived. There was a dead elf tied to a post at the rear of the cave; he couldn’t have been dead more than a day. He wore a blood-drenched Dominion uniform; his bow and quiver lay uselessly discarded next to him.

It was a nice bow.

Fayawen crept closer. On the skin that Gelin’s uniform didn’t cover – it had to be him – she could see dozens of shallow cuts. The cuts couldn’t have been what killed him; they’d have closed up before they could bleed him out completely. There was an odd, pungent smell, though, and there were traces of a foamy green substance in some of his wounds. His blood had been used to paint wavelike designs on otherwise unsullied portions of his skin and uniform.

A hiss behind Fayawen made her turn. Of course, while she’d been distracted, a _giant snake_ had slithered up behind her through the water. Big enough to take her whole head in its jaws easily.

“Mind if I borrow these?” she said to Lieutenant Gelin, snatching up his bow and quiver and readying herself while the snake did its threatening little dance.

“VARI!” she yelled. “COULD USE A PYROMANIAC IN ‘ERE RIGHT ABOUT NOW!”

And then she started loosing arrows. It felt good; she felt like herself again. It made the snake awfully mad, though, and it was awfully quick. She managed to slow it down by lodging an arrow right in the roof of its open mouth. It paused a moment trying to figure out how to spit the thing out, and Fayawen used the opportunity to splash toward the cave exit, trying to get closer to her dangerous friend.

Vari was standing where Fayawen had left her, hands already crackling with fire.

“Incoming snake!” Fayawen said, ducking behind her so as to avoid being singed. “Light ‘im up! I’m right be’ind you wif arrows! Well, not _right_ be’ind you. That would be unwise.”

It wasn’t that difficult a battle with Vari’s help, but the problem was that burning snake smelled _delicious_, and Fayawen still hadn’t eaten yet today. Her arrows kept embarrassingly missing their marks as her stomach audibly rumbled. Luckily, Vari seemed to be having too much fun roasting the snake to criticize.

Once the massive serpent had coiled in on itself in its final death spasm, Fayawen moved to its body and, lacking a good blade, peeled the nearest skin and scales away with her hands. Underneath she found some lightly-cooked flesh and ripped it straight off the bones into her mouth. It tasted so good her eyes rolled back in her head. Either giant snakes were the most delicious things crawling around on Tamriel, or she was starving.

“Dark _moons!_” Vari breathed behind her. “This one needs to… step outside for some air.”

“Fine, more for me,” Fayawen muttered with her mouth full of snake. Tearing her prey to pieces and enjoying the feel of the slippery meat in her fingers, she ate her fill in record time. Her burp echoed satisfyingly through the cave. Wiping at her mouth, she headed for the exit, where she found Vari nibbling delicately at some sort of seedy bread-cake-thing she’d tucked away in a pocket of her homespun robe.

“Ello,” Fayawen greeted her cheerfully. “Fanks for the ‘elp in the fight back there.”

“If this one had _known_ you were so desperate for sustenance,” Vari rasped, “she would have shared the Dominion rations she stole from their camp this morning. Your friend Vari would never let you starve. Here, have some.” She reached into a pocket of her robe and pulled out an untouched cake.

“I can’t eat that stuff,” Fayawen said. “Strictly carnivorous.”

Vari’s eyes widened in fascination, putting the cake back into her pocket. “Vari has read about this. The Green Pact, yes? You cannot use anything made from plants?”

“Well, we can buy ‘fings made outside Valenwood. Foreign wood cut by foreign hands, foreign cloth sometimes, that’s all right. But anythin’ goes directly into the body – food, drink, medicine – can’t be from any kind of plant at all.”

“Are you not malnourished?”

Fayawen shrugged. “The entire idea is that the Green watches out for us if we follow the rules, right? So I suppose it changed us so meat’s all we need. We seem to live as long as those ‘eathen leaf-eaters in Summerset, if not longer.” She shrugged. “C’mon. When you’re finished stuffin’ your face with plant corpses we better break the news to those poor marines.”

Edhelas the runty mage was the only one who took the news with dignity. Nistel responded with murderous rage, sharpening her blade in preparation for burying it in the throat of whoever killed the Lieutenant. Onglorn was grief-stricken, since the man had saved his life, and retreated into tearful prayers. Sergeant Firion panicked at the detail that Gelin apparently been killed as part of a ritual sacrifice.

“Cultists?” she said, wringing her callused hands. “The four of us can’t take on _cultists_. We need ‘elp. Did you see that Dominion ship up the shore?”

“Is that wot that was?” said Fayawen, relieved. “I can go check it out for you. Vari, stay ‘ere; I’ll be right back.”

“If nuffing else,” said Firion, “you need to warn ‘em that it’s not safe to go wandering off alone round ‘ere. Tell ‘em wot ‘appened to Lieutenant Gelin. Spare no detail.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” she said, and even tried for a salute. From the look on Firion’s face, it was not a success. Fayawen made a note to herself as she headed north that she really ought to learn some of this military stuff if the cover story Razum-dar had given her was going to hold a thimble of water.

It seemed that Fayawen’s destiny continued to land squarely in the paws of Khajiit. Oblan, the quartermaster of the beached vessel was yet another: not quite as tall as Razum-dar, but broader, and covered with startlingly large and vivid leopard markings that made Vari’s spots look like little more than freckles by comparison. When he spoke, he sounded as though he’d been around men and mer most of his life; he had a faint trace of an Elsweyr accent, but spoke of himself in the first person.

“As you can see,” he said, “The _Prowler_ is in no condition to sail, and until she is, I doubt my crew is going to be in any condition to help marines who cannot help themselves.”

“You say marines like you ain’t one,” said Fayawen suspiciously. “Wot exactly are you, and why are you sailin’ on a Dominion ship?”

“We have the great honor of raiding wealthy enemies of the Dominion and turning their ill-gotten riches to better purpose.”

“You’re… pirates?”

Oblan recoiled melodramatically. “Heavens no!” he said. “Pirates plunder ships for their own selfish greed! We are _privateers_. We plunder ships for the highest bidder.”

“I imagine it’d be hard to bid higher than Queen Ayrenn.”

“Just so.”

“Wot do you suppose your deep-pocketed Queen would fink of you leavin’ four of her marines to get carved up by cultists?”

“Honestly, I’m fairly certain she wou– wait, cultists?” The quartermaster blinked at her.

“We found one of the marines in that cave up there. Killed in some sor’ of ritual, real ugly. Also there was a giant snake in there. Prob’ly unrelated.”

“Not as unrelated as you might think,” said Oblan gravely. “This is Sea Vipers’ work. Maormer pirates. They have been doing some sort of foul magic I do not begin to understand. But those snakes are their little pets; where you see them, Sea Vipers are not far away, and vice versa. Captain Jimila underestimated the Vipers when we were first beached; we lost several crew who were trying to scavenge materials to repair the _Prowler_.”

“Well, wot if me an’ my marine friends can take on them pirates an’ ‘elp get your _Prowler_ seaworthy again? Will you consider joinin’ forces wiv’ us to stop wotever they’re up to?”

“That is an _if_ the size of Jode, my friend. But I can at least guarantee that if you and your marine friends do manage to patch our hull, find us a new helmsman’s wheel, and steal back the sun-sighter the pirates took when it fell overboard, you will most definitely get an audience with Captain Jimila – who is the only person qualified to make such a decision.

“Patch the hull, helmsman’s wheel, sun-sighter,” said Fayawen. “Got it.” Of course, she had no idea what a helmsman’s wheel or a sun-sighter was. Maybe the marines would.

Vari had been making friends with the Bosmer squad while Fayawen was gone, particularly Edhelas, who was a mage himself and fascinated by Vari’s apparently innate talent with fire. As soon as Fayawen returned, though, Vari moved almost meekly to her side. It was odd the way Vari had just fallen into line as though Fayawen had any sort of authority. Was it because she’d been the one to pick the lock on the door of her cell in Coldharbour? Was Fayawen going to have to keep pretending that she knew what the blazes was going on half the time?

“The crew of the _Prowler_ over yonder may be willin’ to work wiv’ us,” Fayawen told Vari and the marines, “but first we have to do them a little favor. Well, several favors. Any of you good wif carpentry?”

Nistel put up a hand. “I can fix just about anything,” she said.

“Maybe you can patch up the leaks, while the rest of us split up into more dangerous territ’ry. There’s Sea Vipers about, an’ they’ve got the _Prowler_’s sun sighter. Someone also needs to scavenge some of these wrecks and see if there’s an ‘elmsman’s wheel can be carried back to our new friends.”

Fayawen all but held her breath for a moment, worried they’d see she actually had no idea what she was talking about.

But then Firion turned to Nistel. “Go,” she said. “Get those leaks patched lickety-split.”

“I know what a sun sighter looks like,” said Onglorn. “Gods willing, I can take it back from those thieves by force.”

“Do it,” said Firion. “But don’t go alone.”

“I’ll come wif ‘im,” said Fayawen. “If you’ll allow me to use the Lieutenant’s bow, I could watch Onglorn’s back.” It was a nice broad back, and worth watching. 

“All right,” said Firion. “None of us are archers, so may as well let you borrow it for now, but it _is_ Dominion property, so bring it back.”

Fayawen frowned. She liked the bow. Liked it enough that she was tempted just to run off at the first chance and take it with her. But that would probably ruin whatever Razum-dar’s other plans were. She couldn’t exactly afford to foil the plans of the one person who knew Fayawen and Vari were walking corpses and yet didn’t seem to care.

“I guess that leaves me to find the wheel?” said Edhelas.

“Vari, can you go wif him? You two seem to be getting’ along all right.”

Vari’s eyes widened, her whiskers drooping. “You do not wish for this one to come with you?”

“I just didn’t want Edhelas going off alone. It’s dangerous.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Edhelas said. “I’m kind of an expert at not being noticed. And if all else fails…” He held up a hand and made jagged crystals of frost appear in his palm.

“You see?” said Vari, her tail swishing back and forth anxiously. “Don’t separate us, friend.”

“All right,” said Fayawen, though something nagged at the edge of her mind about the Khajiit’s attachment to her, something that made her uneasy. There wasn’t time to think through it now, though.  
  
Not far from where the _Prowler_ had beached was a scattering of tiny islets connected by tidal causeways. The tide had not yet gone out completely and so as they walked the causeways seawater kept rushing in around their ankles, sometimes almost up to their knees. Vari hissed softly every time, and held her robes bunched up around her thighs. 

The Maormer waited for them on the first little island, pale blue and gray war tents set up with snake banners in silver and sky blue, as though the Sea Vipers were waging some formal conquest of Khenarthi’s Roost. Since when did pirates conquer? There was something deeper going on here.

Fayawen was desperately curious about these “sea elves,” but thanks to Onglorn rushing in with sword and shield and giving her some distance to loose crippling arrows at their shins and thighs, she didn’t get much of a look. All she could really tell from her vantage point was that they towered over the fearless Onglorn, and that they seemed paler than the Altmer, silver rather than gold.

Onglorn was outnumbered badly enough that even with arrows and fireballs backing him up Fayawen was a little worried. She heard the cries of sea birds overhead, and as she continued drawing and releasing her bowstring, she let part of her consciousness seek the flock.

She wasn’t sure if her gifts would work this far from the Green, but sure enough, she felt her mind touch the birds’ -- they immediately dive-bombed the Maormer. She released the birds before they could be harmed, and they flew on about their business as the baffled sea elves split their focus and gave Onglorn one deadly opening after another. Searching the water, Fayawen found surprisingly large crabs with brutal claws. They, too, served as a brief distraction, injuring the Maormer’s feet and ankles, then disappearing before the pirates could retaliate.

“Look!” said Vari beside her, between fireballs. “The wildlife here does not like these sea elves at all! How strange! Vari must study this phenomenon.”

Fayawen got a sudden image of the Khajiit vivisecting a seagull. “That was me,” she admitted. “Just a little Valenwood magic.”

“You must tell Vari more!” she said excitedly, and then added, “Perhaps when we are not quite so busy killing people.”

“I’m killin’ no one,” said Fayawen. “Just slowin’ ‘em down so they won’t kill Onglorn. If ‘e wants to kill ‘em that’s between ‘im and ‘is gods, but I ain’t nearly ‘ungry enough to eat that lot.”

“…Eat?” said Vari. “You are pulling this one’s tail. Even in Valenwood, the Bosmer do not eat their foes anymore. In the small remote villages, perhaps, but…”

“An’ just where do you fink I’m from, friend?” Fayawen said. “Or _was_ from, ‘til the Imperial scum burned it to the ground. There were only about two dozen of us, an’ we kept to the old ways.”

“Fascinating,” said Vari. “It is difficult for this one to imagine you devouring a sapient being. You seem so kind.”

“Wot’s unkind about it?” she said. “World would be a better place if we all only killed the people we were willin’ to eat.”

“We are all at war now,” Vari said. She’d completely stopped helping Onglorn now, so fascinated was she by Fayawen’s revelation. Not that it mattered; Onglorn had the last of the sea elves up against the rocks, and seemed to be interrogating him at swordpoint. “Entire armies will be trying to kill you, if you join the Dominion military,” Vari went on. “How can you keep from killing them, and stay alive yourself?”

“First off,” said Fayawen, “Who said I was joinin’ for real? Second, it’s true times are changin’, but I at least need to find a way to ‘old to the _spirit_ of the Pact, because the Green ‘as ‘eld up its end and then some. Look wot it let me do wif those birds, even so far from ‘ome. Look at ‘ow I’m still alive – sort of – after everyfing that’s tried to kill me. I don’t want to lose that.”

Onglorn clearly didn’t much care if he angered the Green, judging by the way the Maormer pirate he’d been interrogating collapsed to the bloodied sand to join the bodies of his brethren. The marine then entered one of the tents and returned with a bizarre, vaguely wedge-shaped device with numerous prongs and protrusions.

“What is that?” said Vari to Onglorn as he approached, her tail swishing back and forth. “It looks like a Dwemer device.”

“It is, sort of,” he said. “It’s the sun-sighter.”

Fayawen shifted her weight. “All right, this is where I admit I dunno wot in Oblivion that is.” 

Onglorn laughed, but not unkindly. He passed it to her, let her examine it. “Measures the angle o’ the sun,” he said. “Pair of brothers in Summerset, Rulorn an’ Neramo, based ‘em off Dwemer designs and shared ‘em with Queen Ayrenn not long after she took the throne. They both got exiled later for some sort of ghastly experiments. Last I ‘eard they’d defected to the Daggerfall Covenant. So I guess those orc-loving Bretons have sun-sighters now too.”

Fayawen was possessed once again by the urge to just take the thing and run. She had absolutely no use for it, but it was so _complex_ and interesting, and she’d never had anything like it in her hands before. Reluctantly, she returned it to the man who actually knew how it worked. Looking over Onglorn’s shoulder as she handed him the sun-sighter, Fayawen squinted into the distance. 

“Do you see what I see?” she asked. “Is that another storm brewin’?”

For the most part, the sky was the sort of blue a sky can only be when it has utterly spent its wrath. But in the distance, where the chain of tidal islands stretched out toward the horizon, she could make out a sort of haze gathering around a ruined Dominion ship that had beached on a large, distant island. It almost looked as though rain was falling out of nowhere.

“Whatever it is,” Vari said, “this one would like to study it more closely.”

“Later, luv,” said Fayawen. “The sun-thingy looks delicate; let’s get it back first.”

The three of them made their way back along the causeways toward the _Prowler_ – the tides didn’t seem to be lapping quite as high now, and Fayawen’s knees stayed dry. A Khajiit woman standing on the deck of the ship called out to them; Fayawen couldn’t hear her words, but she was pointing to the sun-sighter, and her tail was lashing back and forth wildly. Apparently, Oblan hadn’t bothered to inform her that they’d been sent to retrieve the thing, and she likely mistook them for thieves.

“Quick, Onglorn,” said Fayawen, “can you ‘old the sun sighter out like you’re offerin’ it?”

Onglorn glanced toward the ship and seemed to see why Fayawen was concerned: a second Khajiit had rushed to the first one’s side and had raised a bow, fitting an arrow to the string. Onglorn held out a hand in a STOP gesture, and then presented the sun-sighter.

Vari did a sort of frantic little dance in the shallow water, criss-crossing her palms in the air and shaking her head _no no no_, then pointing to the sun-sighter and emphatically toward the ship in turn. At last the female Khajiit put a hand up toward the bowman, who lowered his weapon and slunk away.

“That could’ve been ugly,” Fayawen muttered. They trudged their way to shore, and found themselves “escorted” none too gently by a pair of crew members onto the deck of the ship. Onglorn handed the sun-sighter to one of them immediately, showing no resistance.

The Khajiit woman they’d sighted from the water came to meet them on the lower deck. Her spots were similar to Vari’s, but her fur was a cooler, duskier brown, with a touch of gray. She was tall, with elegant posture, and moved like a dancer.

“Captain Jimila,” she said, holding out her hand to each of them in turn. Fayawen stood so that she’d be last in line for the greeting, so she could copy the others’ gestures exactly. “This one apologizes for the misunderstanding. You must be with the marines who are repairing the _Prowler_.”

“That’s right,” said Fayawen. “Well, Onglorn ‘ere’s a marine, we’re just ‘elpful locals who’ve been pitchin’ in.”

“Whoever you are,” said Jimila gravely, “you have accomplished what this one could not. Jimila regrets to say that when we first arrived here, she sent three crew members out to scavenge a new helmsman’s wheel from the Dominion flagship beached to the northwest. Mastengwe was the only one who returned, and she has a terrible tale of what befell the others.”

“Wot ‘appened?” Fayawen asked with a frown.

“Jimila will only garble the tale, and you will not believe it. You have this one’s permission to go belowdecks and speak to Mastengwe herself, while she rests and recovers from her wounds.”

Onglorn saluted her crisply. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, “but I should return to my Sergeant.”

“Vari an’ I will go,” said Fayawen, slipping a companionable arm around her Khajiit friend. It sounded as though the Sea Vipers were up to something big nearby, and this was exactly what Razum-dar had sent them to find out.  
  
***

The interior of the ship was surprisingly posh and decorated everywhere with Dominion symbolism: eagles and golden-yellow drapery. Mastengwe, as her too-complicated name suggested, was a high elf. She sat listlessly on the floor of a little sleeping cabin, leaning against a bunk with a golden blanket neatly tucked in. Her face had the look of someone who was both extremely stressed and enduring physical pain.

“Good day,” said Fayawen, trying to sound formal and Altmery. “I’m Fayawen, and this is Vari. We’re hhere to hhelp find out what hhappened to your missing crew members.” Both Vari and Mastengwe gave her strange looks, so she apparently wasn’t nailing the accent.

“Suhr and Virkvild,” Mastengwe said wanly. “We spotted the Dominion flagship beached to the northwest, and we thought we could take its wheel, for the _Prowler_. But the Sea Vipers captured us.”

“Whhat did they do to you?”

“They took us to the flagship; I was bound and then ignored. Suhr and Virkvild weren’t as lucky. They had erected some manner of… snake statues at either end of the ship. They somehow… tied them to the statues with lightning? And started chanting. A storm started to form around the island. While they were absorbed in their chanting I slipped my bonds and tried to free Suhr, but when I touched him the lightning nearly jolted my eyes out of my skull. I didn’t dare try again. But I think I know a way you might save them.”

Fayawen leaned in. “Do tell,” she said. 

“As I was trying to escape, I—” Her gaze went distant, as though she were seeing something unpleasant unfolding just behind Fayawen’s shoulder. “I saw one of the Sea Vipers punch Virkvild right in the stomach. He was struggling, you see, disrupting the ritual. But the Sea Viper wasn’t injured by the lightning when he touched Virkvild – he had some sort of a device on his wrist that glowed, seemed to absorb the lightning’s power and keep him safe. They all wear those. These stones on their wrists. If you could find one and wear it, I believe it would protect you, and you could free my friends.”

“You _believe_ it would?” said Fayawen.

Mastengwe frowned. “I wasn’t protected at all, and although it wasn’t pleasant, brief contact didn’t kill me. You may get a nasty shock, but isn’t trying worth it, to save two lives and stop this mad ritual?”

“Wot—Whhat is it you thhink they’re doing, exactly?”

“Trying to call up another hurricane, I expect. Why, I have no idea.”

“Vari and I will investigate,” Fayawen promised her. When Vari made a soft snorting sound, Fayawen turned to her. “You did want to get a closer look at that storm.”

Vari just narrowed her blue eyes and said nothing.

“I am grateful for the information,” Fayawen said to Mastengwe, trying to sound as Altmery as she could. “I hhope you recover swiftly from your wounds.”

On their way back to the deck, Vari leaned over and purred softly, “What are you doing, with that ridiculous accent?”

Fayawen frowned. “They won’ respec’ me if I don’t talk proper.”

“There was absolutely nothing proper about that,” said Vari, patting her gently. “This one begs of you not to try that again.”

Fayawen nodded absently, only half-listening; she was busy scanning their posh surroundings. Surely there was some pretty little trinket the Queen’s well-paid privateers wouldn’t miss. For the moment, she and Vari were alone in the belly of the ship, so she opened a few drawers, peering inside them.

“Fayawen,” Vari hissed, “what are you doing? Let’s go!”

“Just lookin’,” Fayawen said. Nothing pretty, just rolls of twine, empty jars and vials, sewing kits, first aid supplies, writing implements, ink bottles, papers. She rifled through the papers, and a name caught her eye.

_My dear, lucky friend Oblan_, read the salutation. Fayawen pulled the paper out and read it over, frowning with concentration. Reading wasn’t her strong suit.

“Well this is interestin’,” she said. “Our quartermaster friend Oblan’s got ‘is paws in somethin’ shady. Someone wif the intial ‘K’ is expectin’ him to get some kinda ‘raw materials’ here and bring them to ‘er in someplace starts wiv ‘H’ so they can make a batch of… somethin’. It sounds way too secretive to be official Dominion business.”

Vari snatched the letter from Fayawen so quickly that Fayawen startled slightly. She had no idea the Khajiit could move that quickly. Or scowl that stormily as her eyes scanned the lines on the paper.

“Vari knows exactly what this is,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “Vari may need to… investigate. But later. May Vari keep this?”

“I… suppose so. What is it?”

“Moon sugar,” she said in a half-whisper, tucking the letter into the bag slung over her shoulder. “A spice that is grown here, harmless. But it can be used to brew a drug called skooma. Vari will look into it and make sure this wicked Oblan does not get his ‘raw materials,’ yes?”

Fayawen studied her. Vari seemed to be taking this awfully personally, but Fayawen would have to question her later. Even belowdecks, she could feel the air changing subtly. Those Maormer were up to something bad.

As soon as the two of them emerged into the open air, Fayawen’s suspicions were confirmed. Even from the deck of the _Prowler_ she could see that the island she’d spotted in the distance was now enveloped in a swirling vortex of rain-laden wind. Worse, the phenomenon seemed to be slowly expanding outward.

“Y’ffre’s beard,” Fayawen breathed, and took off like a shot down the gangplank, along the beach, and across the causeway toward the storm without even checking to see if Vari was following.

She was, though, because in a few moments Fayawen heard her panting. “This is madness!” the Khajiit cried. “We should be running the other way!”

“You’re free to go,” Fayawen shot back over her shoulder. “But if I’ve got a chance of stoppin’ wotever that is – an’ I fink I do – I ain’t gonna sit around on my ‘ands an’ let another ‘urricane flatten this place.”

The wind was already picking up, and the shallow water was frothing and lapping at the causeway. Fayawen splashed through it toward the pile of Maormer corpses Onglorn had left by the small grouping of silver and blue tents. She knelt by the nearest body, and sure enough, the silver-haired sea elf wore a milky stone on his livid wrist. It took her a moment to figure out the clasp, but then she relieved him of it and put the stone on her own wrist. Same hand, just in case that mattered.

“Put one o’ these on!” she shouted to Vari over the rising wind, but Vari had already caught on to the plan and was manhandling another fish-white corpse, her muzzle wrinkled in a snarl of distaste.

The Dominion flagship, close enough now that Fayawen could see the rents in its sails, had been carried so violently by the recent hurricane that it now rested, its bottom gouged out, atop a rocky summit of an island that would have been dry even at highest tide during normal weather. It loomed above them as they approached, cloaked by the swirling dark storm. Cold needles of rain began to pelt Fayawen’s cheeks and arms as they reached the last of the tidal islands. There was nothing but choppy sea between them and the island with the beached flagship.

“We’re gonna have to swim for it,” said Fayawen, taking off her boots. Vari planted her feet, folding her arms and shaking her head vigorously. “Suit yerself,” said Fayawen. “If I don’ come back, I hope stayin’ dry will be comfort enough for knowin’ you didn’t ‘elp me.”

With that, she ran into the water, diving forward when it reached her waist to pull herself toward the ship with clumsy strokes. She’d had some experience swimming in lakes and streams, but a seething ocean was another matter. A wave slapped her in the face, stinging her nose and making her cough. She was probably going to drown before she even got there. Probably best that Vari hadn’t—

“Come on!” came the rough voice of the Khajiit woman in her ear. “Put your arm around this one’s neck!”

Fayawen was too surprised to object; she slung her arm around the Khajiit and did her best not to drag her friend down, kicking with her legs and stroking the water with her free arm. Vari had dispensed with her robe, and was swimming in her underclothes. Fayawen hadn’t even realized Khajiit could swim, but Vari cut through the water like a shark. Come to think of it, the last person to save her from drowning had been a Khajiit as well.

“I thought Khajiit hated water!” Fayawen spluttered.

“We do!” said Vari. Fayawen waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming. Later, this cat was going to actually answer a question for once. For now, she just held on.

Rain sheeted down in diagonal torrents, carried by the revolving winds. Vari cursed and spluttered and pulled Fayawen through the sea until they were able to clamber, soaked and shivering, onto the rocky shore of the flagship’s island. Despite her earlier reluctance, Vari led the way now, climbing the rocks. From her talk of spending time reading and the softness of her physique – much more visible now that virtually all of her spotted hide was bared – Fayawen wasn’t expecting agility, but Vari was as adept at climbing as she was swimming. More than a bit out of breath though. Trained, perhaps, but not in recent practice?

Fayawen followed close behind. Vari had chosen a path that kept them out of the eyeline of the handful of Maormer patrolling the island, and when they reached the side of the ship itself, they saw there was only one elf on deck: a bald, robed male who was clearly in the throes of some powerful magic. The deck was dry in a small circle around him; he was the only thing the storm didn’t touch.

“Fink we can take ‘im?” Fayawen called up to Vari as loudly as she dared.

“Let that fish-bellied pirate _try_ to put out Vari’s fire,” she growled. 

The two of them scaled the rocks closest to the edge of the deck, and then jumped across, landing with a slippery thud on the wet wood. They stood in the very center of a vast gray-black vortex of wind and rain, the scene made all the more surreal by constant livid strobes of lightning.

The robed Maormer opened his eyes, but was apparently so startled to see a plump, mostly-naked Khajiit running at him full tilt that he hesitated, giving Vari the perfect opportunity to hurl a dart of fire at him before he could put up any sort of arcane shield. He shrieked in pain as his dry robe went up in flames. Fayawen launched a couple of arrows into his calves and one into his thigh, making him stumble, then – trusting Vari to finish him off -- raced to the stern of the ship where she’d seen a man bound.

Two intricate snake idols, shaped vaguely like question marks, faced each other in a perfect symmetry of fanged menace. Between them, undulating cords of lightning seemed to hold a Nord man suspended. He groaned and writhed against his restraints to no avail. Racing to his side, Fayawen put her bow in the hand without the wrist-stone and used the other to try to pull him down. A soft trail of silvery light emerged from the stone at her wrist, and after a moment the lightning died away, and the man fell to the deck in an exhausted crouch.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “Who are you?”

“No one,” she said. “Just helping Jimila. Head to the main island as fast as you can. Watch for Maormer patrols.”

“Aye,” he said, and fled into the howling wind and rain without needing further encouragement.

From this vantage point Fayawen could see not only the epic battle between Vari’s fire and the Maormer’s lightning, but also behind them the other captive, a Khajiit. Of course he was on the absolute opposite end of the ship. Fayawen sighed, running and leaping her way across the slick deck, her wet hair lashing across her face in the unruly wind. 

Vari had the Maormer backed up against a row of large crates on deck, but before she could finish him he raised his hand and flung a jagged bolt of lightning that hit her square in the chest. She swayed on her feet, fur crackling with electricity, looking stunned. He readied himself for a more powerful spell, a ball of lightning growing between his palms and sending out thrashing snakes of light.

Fayawen stopped, raising her bow, steadying herself and exhaling slowly as she pulled back the string. She narrowed her focus, shutting out everything but angle and force and velocity…

_Thwack_. An arrow lodged in the man’s shoulder, pinning him back against the crates. He howled as Vari rallied and leaped on him, fur still crackling and claws aflame. Vari made a vicious slashing motion at the Maormer’s throat, and that was the end of him. He went limp, snapping the arrow in his shoulder as he collapsed lifeless to the deck.

And yet the storm still raged.

Fayawen continued aft to the second pair of snake statues; Vari followed her and helped her free the lynx-like Khajiit who was suspended there. When he fell to the deck the winds gentled, and the rain began to slow, and the Khajiit looked up and gawked at Vari.

“Has Suhr died?” he gasped, as sunlight pierced the clouds to glisten on Vari’s wet fur. “Surely this one has reached the Sands Behind the Stars.”

Vari hissed at him. “Stop your gawking,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Llesw’er is not full of angry Maormer. Follow the Bosmer, and she will try to get you back to your captain Jimila without more slaughter. This one will bring up the rear until she finds her robe.”

***

With the _Prowler_ ready to sail at high tide and the Dominion marines now welcomed wholeheartedly aboard, Fayawen and Vari made their way back toward Eagle’s Strand along the winding road that ran parallel to the southwestern shore of the island.

“This one wishes she had something to wear besides her damp, sandy robe,” Vari said glumly.

“If it’s more comfortable in your smallclothes, don’t suffer on my account,” said Fayawen. “Or is this about Razum-dar?”

Fayawen supposed Khajiit couldn’t blush, on account of the fur, but the way Vari ducked her head and folded her ears was a pretty clear sign to Fayawen that she’d guessed right.

“You know e’s probably got a gal in every port, right?” Fayawen said gently. “Don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I know the type.”

“But does he have a girl yet in this port? Vari thinks not. He has not been here long enough.”

“Vari!” Fayawen laughed. “You’re awful.”

“What? Vari is not married, and she did not see a ring of Mara on Razum-dar’s hand, so she may hope, if she likes.”

“I suppose romance is the last thing on my mind right now, is all,” said Fayawen.

“Vari was not thinking of romance either. But she knows what you meant. Vari thinks, though, that if it had been a strapping wood elf who had saved you from the sea, you might feel differently.”

“Maybe,” said Fayawen. “Or anyone wif’out fur, no offense.”

“Only a small amount taken. Perhaps Vari can find you a nice shaveskin, then. Do you prefer a man or a woman?”

“Doesn’t matter to me, but honestly, don’t put yourself out. Right now I’m more worried about gettin’ ‘ome to Valenwood somehow. Don’t need any complications.”

“And once you return to Valenwood, what will you do, then?”

Fayawen considered, frowning. She hadn’t given it much thought before; she’d just assumed she’d go back to her normal life. But she couldn’t, could she? She had no memory of her death, but if the people from her old village knew she’d died, they wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to see her again.

“Might this one make a suggestion?” said Vari.

“All right.”

“Perhaps you should join the Aldmeri Dominion as a scout, as you are pretending you wish to do. You have already distinguished yourself.”

Fayawen shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of bowing to high elves. Why, is that what you’re going to do?”

“Yes,” Vari said. “This one will always be a Khajiit first, but the world is changing, and the Altmer are the only ones with the power to protect us. We can either join with them, or the Daggerfall Covenant and the Ebonheart Pact can trample us. Queen Ayrenn was kind enough to allow us to join her Dominion as equals rather than slaves, and this one would like to respect that offer so that Her Majesty is not tempted to change the terms. And because this one is gifted with magic, she believes she could be of use to their military.”

This was the longest speech Vari had given in the entire time Fayawen had known her. That nagging feeling of unease began to creep into Fayawen’s gut again, the same feeling she had earlier as she contemplated how attached Vari had grown to her in such a short time. And yet once again she didn’t have time to examine it, to figure out what was wrong. The broken towers of Eagle’s Strand were now rising up to greet them, and sitting atop one of the ruined Imperial walls was none other than Razum-dar himself, as though he had known exactly when to watch for their return.

“Hello, little raindrops,” said Razum-dar as they approached the wall. He didn’t jump down from atop it, just leaned his elbows on his knees so that he could look down at them more easily, ears pricked forward with curiosity. “You were gone so long on such a simple scouting mission, this one was not certain what to think. But here you are. Looking rather the worse for wear, if this one may be so blunt. Do not be embarrassed; not everyone is so constantly impeccable as Raz. You have news of the Maormer, I hope? Or did you go swimming for some other reason?”

“We ‘ave more than news,” said Fayawen. “We actually stopped ‘em from brewin’ up another ‘urricane.”

“So it _wasn’t _just coincidence that the first one hit just as the Gold Fleet arrived. Somehow Raz suspected as much. How did you foil their plans?”

“They were doin’ a ritual of some sort,” said Fayawen. “They ‘ad two of the _Prowler_’s crew tied to these idols wif lightning somehow. We figured out ‘ow to free their captives, an’ killed the guy doin’ the ritual, an’ the skies cleared right up.”

“Splendid!” said Raz, straightening to spread his arms wide.

“You’re just gonna take our word for it?”

“You mentioned the crew of the _Prowler_, which means that Raz could easily verify your story; why would you lie? Raz does not trust foolishly, but he finds that undue skepticism wastes time. Here.” He tossed a small pouch at each of them. Fayawen caught hers; Vari’s fell jingling at her feet. Raz shook his head at her, clucking his tongue sadly. Her ears flattened.

Fayawen looked in the pouch and whistled. “You were gonna pay this much just fer scoutin’ the sea elves? I can only imagine ‘ow much must be comin’ to us for stoppin’ em.”

Vari gave her a horrified look, but Razum-dar laughed. 

“Raz likes your style,” he said. “He will see what he can come up with. But first, he is going to escort you to Mistral. Not only because the bank is there, and you have emptied Raz’s pockets, but because your next assignment is there as well. As you have proven yourself more than capable, this one has another job for you that requires someone who is not quite so obviously a Dominion agent. In fact, if your friend can be enticed to speak, she would be the perfect woman to take the lead on this mission.” He turned to look at Vari expectantly.

Vari looked back at him mutely, eyes wide, tail lashing back and forth. Fayawen half expected her to puff up like a house cat and dart away sideways.

“All right then,” said Razum-dar. “Fayawen it is. I suppose sending in a Bosmer will be useful in its own way, as your first stop will be to have a word with the Silvenar.”

Now it was Fayawen’s turn to gawk at him wide-eyed. “The – the –”

“Silvenar. Spiritual leader of your people, guardian of lore and history, et cetera? That Silvenar?”

“I _know_ who he is. You want me to speak to him? _Me_?”

“Do not be alarmed. He is an almost unnecessarily humble soul, as so many of your people are. He is here in a diplomatic capacity for the Dominion, as the sight of high elves makes Maormer’s sword hands twitchy.”

“Why do we care about appeasing Maormer?”

Razum-dar hopped down from the wall at last, landing with effortless elegance. “That, my damp friend, is too long a story to tell you before you have had a hot meal and a change of clothes. You stink of the sea, and while the Maormer might see this as a point in your favor, Razum-dar does not. Do not worry; we should still have time to get you to Mistral before sundown.”

***

The town of Mistral was almost due north of Eagle’s Strand, but the road meandered a bit, giving Fayawen ample time to question Razum-dar on the situation out of earshot of both the local guard and the Dominion marines. The cat had left some crucial information out of their briefing before he’d sent them to spy on and murder sea elves.

“If the Maormer ‘ave owned this island outright for generations,” Fayawen said to Razum-dar, “I can understand why they’d be pissed off to see a Dominion fleet sailin’ in wifout permission.”

Vari, as usual, said nothing to the other Khajiit, her gaze seeming torn between the careless sway of his tail and the beautiful sights of the island itself: the sprawling, idyllic moon sugar plantation to the east, the temple to the distance in the west, sunlit flowering trees, and sheep grazing peacefully in lush fields.

“This was not precisely a surprise party,” said Razum-dar. “Valenwood and Elsweyr have traded peacefully with Khenarthi’s Roost for years, and Queen Ayrenn sent a few inspectors weeks ago to help with a smuggler problem affecting both this island and Valenwood. While the inspectors were here presenting the Dominion in a good light, they informed Harrani that Her Majesty would be sending a fleet soon to conduct some formal negotiations and to spend a great deal of gold. In hindsight, perhaps a surprise party would have met with calmer weather.”

“What sort of negotiations was the fleet here for?” said Fayawen.

“There has been reason for concern,” said Razum-dar, “since the Dominion was formed. The Maormer have never cared anything about the Bosmer and Khajiit, but there is some little squabble that has been going on between the Maormer and the Altmer since sometime in the Merethic Era… you know how families can be.”

Fayawen didn’t, but this wasn’t the time to get into that. 

“Since the Khajiit and Bosmer now accept the authority of an Altmer queen,” Razum-dar continued, “we have also inherited her enemies. But fortunately for _our_ peoples, the Maormer are a soggy, feckless band of malcontents usually content to harass Summerset, far to the west of here. The Dominion’s true concern was that if Covenant or Pact soldiers wanted Khenarthi’s Roost as a staging area for a coastal invasion of Valenwood or Elsweyr, Headwoman Harrani might be convinced by her Maormer landlords to look the other way. So clearly the Dominion needs control of this island, and our clever Queen had the idea that if the Bosmer were the ones to do the negotiating, the Maormer might actually listen.”

“Why now though? The Dominion’s been around wot, two years now?”

“Maormer activity has increased alarmingly as of late. We do not know why, but Queen Ayrenn decided it was reason enough to move Khenarthi’s Roost up the priority list. Raz knows that Her Majesty will be very displeased if innocent Khajiit lives are lost over this. The Maormer, however, do not care about this, which is why they are willing to bring down a hurricane upon the entire island just to keep the Dominion away from it.”

“I’m still a bit confused,” said Fayawen. “If the Maormer own this island outright, why did you ‘ave me scoutin’ the Sea Vipers like you didn’t expect them to be there?”

“Because this one did not. Sea Vipers are Maormer, yes, but not all Maormer are Sea Vipers. The Maormer here pretend to be civilized. They have an embassy, a treaty with the Khajiit, it all looks very nice and legitimate, yes? But meanwhile some pirates who happen to look a great deal like them do evil rituals to destroy the Dominion fleet and a great many locals in the process.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of high elves,” Fayawen admitted, “but I ‘ave to admit, I’m even less of a fan of these sea elves, and I’m sure as Oblivion not ‘appy to ‘ear they ‘ave territ’ry just off the coast of Valenwood. So point me at ‘em and I’ll end ‘em one way or the other.”

“Calm yourself, vicious raindrop,” said Razumdar with a smile in his voice. “If we can end the treaty, there will be no need to ‘end’ the Maormer, as fun as that sounds.”

Thanks to the sparseness of the trees among the sun-drenched grass, the small town of Mistral made itself visible in the north from a good distance down the road. Mistral was situated on a smaller island nestled in the crescent-shaped embrace of the main landmass, but the channel that the sea made between them was so narrow that it the town was easily reachable on foot by way of a two-part wooden bridge that touched down on a tiny spot of land between the two islands.

The buildings of Mistral were constructed in the Khajiiti style, with their peculiar swaybacked roofs and dizzying flourishes. Gilded embellishments gleamed like fire in the afternoon sun, hiding the middling quality of the wood used in construction. Moons were a common theme in the decor, both in literal depiction and in subtler abstract crescent shapes throughout.

“Don’t let the town’s cheerful appearance fool you,” Razum-dar warned in a low purr as they crossed the second bridge. “We are hours away from a bloodbath, if this diplomatic situation is not resolved adequately.”

“An’ you want me to ‘andle it?” Fayawen said incredulously.

“Raz wanted your Khajiit friend to handle it,” he said wryly, “but the only thing worse than a clumsy diplomat is a mute diplomat, so this one is afraid it is up to you. No doubt the Silvenar can advise you on how to handle the situation. Just show him this token, and he will confide in you.” Razum-dar pressed what felt like a coin into her palm. “Do not worry, my friend,” he added in a soothing tone, closing her fingers around the token. “Raz is watching out for you. The Chancery is the large building to the north with its back against the hill. You will see the Silvenar the moment you enter. Raz advises you to go as soon as you are ready, and meet this one in the tavern afterward.”

Once they were out of earshot, Vari murmured, “Vari wishes Raz were watching out for _her_.”

“Are you ever gonna talk to ‘im?” Fayawen said irritably. “’E probably finks you’re some kind of imbecile.”

“How does the saying go?” Vari said in her sly, raspy voice. “Better to suggest ignorance in silence than to prove it with speech?”

“We don’ ‘ave that sayin’ in Valenwood,” said Fayawen. “Only time we value silence is when we’re stalkin’ prey. Otherwise, we never shut up.”

As they crossed the town toward the Chancery, listening to merchants barking their wares and the loud cries of swooping gulls, Fayawen found herself wishing she’d had time to make herself something decent to wear, instead of picking through the disturbingly wide selection of clothes that had been salvaged from dead Dominion sailors. The tunic and breeches she wore had clearly been laundered, but they weren’t particularly striking, and she was about to meet one of the most important people in her entire culture. She took a deep breath, and prayed to Y’ffre that she would make a decent impression.

“Has the Silvenar completely taken leave of his senses?” sounded a strident male voice as Fayawen and Vari climbed the stairs toward the entrance to the Chancery. It belonged to a redheaded Altmer wearing a well-groomed goatee and a fine Dominion robe. “Lorkhan take the Maormer! There is no _negotiating_ with them; the only way to deal with them is to exterminate them!”

Fayawen wasn’t exactly in disagreement, but she wasn’t certain she liked this gentleman much more than she liked the sea elves. Who stood in the middle of a town yelling about exterminating its owners where everyone could hear?

“That’s Vicereeve Pelidil,” said the man’s Altmer servant when questioned. She knew better than to bother addressing the master directly. The moment he heard her accent he’d dismiss her.

“Wot’s a vicereeve?”

“In this case,” the servant said patiently, “he is a personal advisor and retainer to Prince Naemon, younger brother to the Queen. In fact, if Ayrenn hadn’t come back from her little… adventure, Vicereeve Pelidil would be advisor to the King of the Altmer! As it is, the Vicereeve is here representing Altmer interests.”

“Aye, ‘e’s representin’ the Altmer all right,” Fayawen said. She had technically agreed with the servant, but his expression told her he’d understood her tone and intent all too well.

“_Your_ people’s interests are here represented by the Silvenar and the Green Lady.”

“The—” Fayawen gulped. “The Green Lady’s ‘ere too?” Of course she was. She and the Silvenar couldn’t have put an ocean between them; the Green would probably fall apart. All the same, Fayawen felt her heart start to race. All her childhood, even though she knew her parents had simply been hunters who failed to negotiate peacefully with wood orcs, she’d pretended that her origins were mysterious and that she was destined to be the next Green Lady. At least all the bow practice had come in handy, even if she’d turned out only to be the same old ordinary hunter her parents had been.

Well, she was not so ordinary _now_.

Fayawen nodded her thanks to the servant, who was giving off definite signs of being Finished With the Likes of Her (gods, but even their servants were snooty). Slipping around the small party that had gathered to bicker outside, Fayawen headed straight into the Chancery.

As Razum-dar had predicted, the Silvenar was immediately visible, sitting behind a wide desk in the entryway. There was no mistaking him; something in Fayawen hummed like a plucked string at the sight of his earnest, careworn face. A bit older than she’d imagined, but it only added to his dignity; there was an aura of benevolent authority about him despite his simple robes. He looked at Fayawen with such warm, paternal recognition that for a heart-skipping moment she wondered if they had met before, during the portion of her memory that had been erased by her death.

“Hello, child,” the Silvenar said softly. He spoke with the rounded and comfortable vowels of Valenwood, though his consonants were a bit crisper and more precise than those of Fayawen’s home village. “You have the look of my homeland about you,” he said. “I’d wager you’re no local. Are you with the Gold Fleet?”

“In a manner o’ speakin’ sir,” Fayawen mumbled, eyes downcast, and held out the token to him. “I’m Fayawen, and this is Vari.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, his tone brightening. “You ladies move in good company. Lift your head, child, there’s no need to be shy. What brings you to see me?”

“Our mutual friend thought you could use my ‘elp, sir,” she said, blushing as she met his gaze. “But may I be honest? I’m not much of a diplomat.”

The Silvenar gave a gentle, wry smile. “Little good such skills have done me here, so far. Perhaps a more blunt approach is worth trying.”

“That I can do, sir. Wot would you ‘ave me say, and to who?” 

“Could you perhaps, in your own words, make the same request I have made repeatedly to no avail? I’ll need you to speak with Headwoman Harrani and Ambassador Ulondil, and see if you can get either of them to produce a copy of the treaty that puts this island in the Maormer’s possession. I would never offend by saying anything to cast doubt upon this treaty’s legitimacy, or its existence, but until I can examine it myself, I am not certain where to begin negotiations.”

Ambassador Ulondil was easy enough to find, as he was the only Maormer at the Chancery. This was the first Fayawen had seen a sea elf at anything other than bow range, and it was an effort not to let her distaste show in her expression. Ambassador Ulondil’s eyes were white-filmed in a way that made him look blind, but there was no mistaking the direct and penetrating look he gave Fayawen upon her approach.

“If you have business with me, wood elf, make it brief,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “I’m here to ‘ave a look at the treaty that gives you lot ownership over Khenarthi’s Roost.”

Ulondil scowled. “I’m afraid ‘we lot’ don’t carry the treaty around with us, as I’ve already told your Silvenar several times. Our records are far from here, on our home islands. We weren’t exactly expecting the Altmer to show up and try to steal our land out from under us, and so of course we didn’t think it necessary to provide proof of what the local Khajiit have known and accepted for generations. Have you asked Headwoman Harrani for her copy, or was that too sensible an approach for you?”

Fayawen felt her cheeks flame with an unpleasant mixture of anger and embarrassment, and she turned away from the Maormer ambassador without another word.

“I ‘ave no idea which of these Khajiit is Harrani,” Fayawen murmured under her breath to Vari. “I don’t suppose you’d ask one of your fellow Khajiit? I don’ mind pissin’ off the sea elf, but I don’ wanna say the wrong thing to someone wot might actually be on our side.”

Vari nodded, and lightly touched the arm of a nearby elderly Khajiit. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said. “This one is looking for Headwoman Harrani.”

The old man pointed to the opposite side of the Chancery’s ground floor, where a white female Khajiit with tiger stripes and a shoulder-length mane appeared to be reassuring an anxious citizen.

Fayawen nodded her thanks to Vari and the old man and eased her way over to wait her turn, Vari close behind her. Once Harrani had assured the young Khajiit that battle was not about to break out in the streets, she turned curiously to Fayawen and Vari.

“There are many new faces here in Mistral,” she said, “but yours are newer than most. Bright moons and warm sands, honored guests. Headwoman Harrani, at your service.”

Fayawen glanced at Vari. Vari’s blue eyes widened in a _who, me?_ look, and then she sighed and turned to the Headwoman.

“Greetings, Headwoman,” she rasped in honeyed tone. “This one is Vari, a humble Dominion sailor who has been tasked by the Silvenar to speak with you about the treaty giving possession of this island to the Maormer.”

Harrani’s ears flattened briefly. “This one is sorry to disappoint you, but as she already told the Silvenar, the situation here is tense. The Maormer are deeply offended by the Dominion’s presence, and our treaty with them has brought prosperity to Mistral and the island’s plantations for many decades. Harrani does not wish to be the one to break this agreement.”

“We ain’t askin’ you to break nuffin,” Fayawen insisted. “Just wanna ‘ave a look.”

Harrani’s tail lashed back and forth twice in the ensuing awkward silence. “Please accept this one’s apologies,” she said finally. “This is not something she is able to do for you, as much as she would wish to.” Was it Fayawen’s imagination, or was Harrani trying to transmit some secondary message with her eyes? She had a pleading look about her, but said no more. Then she glanced over Fayawen’s shoulder and said more firmly, “Please, let this one attend to her duties.”

When Fayawen turned, she saw that Ulondil had moved into Harrani’s eyeline and was watching her closely. Interesting.

“Vari, do me a favor,” she said quietly, pulling her to one side. “Can you report our absolute failure to the Silvenar while I go an’ talk to old Raz? Somefing's dodgy 'ere, an’ also, I don’ wanna see the Silvenar’s face when ‘e finds out I couldn’t do the one simple fing ‘e asked.”

Vari sighed, but gave Fayawen’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “This one will find you at the tavern after she reports to your Silvenar,” she said kindly.

The tavern was just down the steps and to the west of the Chancery; Razum-dar was settled at the bar with a large mug. When he spotted Fayawen’s approach, he subtly pulled out the barstool next to him with his foot.

“Where is your plump little friend?” he asked when she’d taken her seat.

“Talkin’ to the Silvenar.”

“So Vari does speak. This one suspected he saw some intelligence in her. Perhaps Raz should try not to be quite so handsome in her presence; it seems to tie the poor thing’s tongue.”

Fayawen glanced at the ceiling briefly. “Somethin odd’s goin’ on in the Chancery,” she said, choosing to ignore his comment since she couldn’t deny it. “Harrani wouldn’t show us ‘er copy of the treaty, but she seemed upset about not bein’ able to do so. An’ Ulondil was watchin’ her. I think she’d be willin’ to show us, but the Maormer must’ve put the fear of Oblivion in ‘er.”

Razum-dar looked thoughtful. “Ooooor,” he said, rubbing his chin, “Raz may have just figured out why Ambassador Ulondil just posted a guard outside his private quarters. Oh, Ulondil, you are as subtle as you are gracious.”

“Wot are you on about?”

“This one thinks the treaty must be as sound as a leaky rowboat, and so Ulondil has stolen Harrani’s copy so that the Dominion might not get a look at it. He wishes to force a fight. But…” Here he narrowed his eyes at Fayawen, considering her. “Do you think you would be able to steal it back, my friend?”

Fayawen answered him with a huge grin.

"This one does not wish the guard harmed in any way," Razum-dar said sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "The entire point of this delicate exercise is to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. There would be little point in getting the treaty into the Silvenar's hands if we are planning to stain those hands with blood by association."

"Jus' leave it to me," said Fayawen proudly. "If there's one fing you learn from observin' the Green Pact proper, it's 'ow to get fings done wifout killin' anyone."

"No bruising, either, and certainly no creatively placed arrows. If you can manage this, Raz would very much like to be the first to see this treaty -- after you, of course. This one is very curious what Ulondil was so desperate to hide."

"I'll get it for you, don't you worry, luv."

"And here comes your pyromaniac friend," Razum-dar said amiably, looking over Fayawen's shoulder. His intent gaze was somewhat at odds with his casual tone, but Fayawen couldn't determine if the intensity had to do with mistrust, attraction, or simply a catlike curiosity in the face of the enigma Vari presented.

"So 'ow'd it go?" Fayawen asked Vari as soon as she was in earshot. She half expected Vari not to answer, to play mute again.

"The Silvenar was disappointed, but not surprised," Vari said instead. Her voice was half smoke, half honey, but her eyes were on Fayawen and not Razum-dar. It was almost as though she hadn't noticed him. "He has decided to stop formal talks for a little while," Vari went on, "because things are getting rather too tense at the Chancery."

"All well an' good," said Fayawen, "since I'm about to nick a copy of the treaty for Raz to take a look at. Ulondil stole 'Arrani's an' stashed it in 'is quarters. I'm gonna steal it back."

"And what should Vari do, while you are committing crimes in the name of diplomacy?"

Raz answered this one for her. "The same thing Raz is doing, Vari-ko. Waiting patiently and pretending to drink a great deal, so that it appears your guard is down. Would you like for this one to buy you a large mug filled with very little ale, or do you prefer to pay for your own ruse?" When Vari looked down, ears flat, instead of answering, Razum-dar turned smoothly to Fayawen. "Vari means 'sweet' in our native tongue, did you know?" he said. "No matter what suffix one puts after it, it sounds like an endearment."

Fayawen looked between the two Khajiit. “Well, enjoy your… not-drinking, I guess. Vari, do try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.” She shot Razum-dar a grim look. “You _fink_ I’m jokin’, but you didn’t see ‘er on the beach.”

With that, she left the two to get acquainted, now that it appeared the conversation had a chance of not being entirely one-sided. She was willing to indulge Vari’s little crush for now, but if those crazy cats ran away together and left Fayawen all alone, she was going to be well and truly pissed off.

***

The Maormer Embassy was at something of a remove from the rest of the town, hidden away by a double set of walls that didn’t even allow so much as a peek through at the entrance. Dirty-blue banners with serpent icons hung over the walls, adding to the general Keep Out ambiance. 

All the Maormer on the Embassy grounds had the same sour expressions and eerie clouded eyes as Ulondil, and none of them seemed happy to see Fayawen. Since the tavern was directly between here and the Chancery, either she or Razum-dar would have noticed earlier if Ulondil had gone to report on her meddling. That meant their hostility had to be generic and not Fayawen-specific, and so she brushed it off, waltzing through the front doors and walking cheerily up to the clerk at the front desk as though she belonged there. He had the friendliest face she’d seen yet on a Maormer, which meant he wasn’t actively scowling.

“Ello,” she said. “I’m ‘ere to see Ambassador Ulondil. Got a message for ‘im.”

“I can take the message,” said the clerk, holding out his hand.

“Oh, it ain’t on paper,” said Fayawen. “Too sensitive, or somefing? But one of you lot down on the beach paid me good gold to relay the message, so I better do that.”

“On the beach, you say?” The clerk’s forehead creased. “Very well. But I think he’s at the Chancery.”

“Already tried there; they said e’s headed back ‘ere on account of the talks being put on ‘old for now.”

“All right, you may wait here until he returns.”

“If ‘e don’t, I’m told to give it to the guard outside ‘is quarters. Where’s that?”

“Upstairs, but –”

“No worries, I can find it!” said Fayawen cheerfully, and made for the stairs with her best show of brisk confidence.

There was indeed a bored looking guard standing outside one of the doors upstairs. The door was slightly, maddeningly ajar, but Fayawen couldn’t see inside, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t allowed to choke the guard into unconsciousness to get by him. She’d have to think of something else.

The luck of the Divines was with her, because on a writing desk just down the hall (and just out of the guard’s eyeline) were several drafts of a letter he’d clearly been laboring on for some time. It was addressed to a Khajiit named Zali, whose fur was either as silver as moonlight or as shiny as silver – hard to tell through all the scratching out and rewriting in his awful penmanship. Fayawen wasn’t the most literate woman at the best of times, but from what she could gather the two had spoken only casually, but enough to render the poor man completely obsessed. He went into great detail about his important job of guarding the Ambassador’s quarters, so this was definitely her man.

Fayawen could barely write, but probably the same could be said of most Khajiit around here, so she’d have to take a chance. She grabbed a pen, dipped it in ink and, tongue protruding out the side of her mouth, carefully penned the following:

_My handsum frind,_

_This one is feling frisky and must see yuo rite away. I wil be at the brige for only wun owr ples hurry._

_Zali_

Fayawen put the pen away and carefully blew on the paper to dry it, then folded it in thirds. She marched herself straight back to the guard and did a little double-take.

“Oh!” she said. “You must be ‘im. Some Khajiit with silver fur told me to take this to you right quick. I can’t read it, I’m only a farmer, but it seemed pretty important.”

“Silver fur, you say?” Fayawen could see his eyes light up as he snatched the paper and read it. His nose wrinkled briefly, but then his look of distaste changed to one of lustful anticipation. He didn’t even acknowledge Fayawen as he hurried down the stairs, abandoning his post.

“Men,” Fayawen mumbled to herself as she slipped into Ulondil’s quarters.

None of his desk drawers had locks, but it took Fayawen a tense bit of sifting through paperwork to find the treaty. It was several pages long and written on both sides, but it was also helpfully labeled “Treaty of Khenarthi’s Roost” at the top and stitched together along one edge to reassure her she wasn’t leaving any of it behind. She folded it and stuffed it down the front of her trousers, then casually sauntered out, calling over her shoulder to the clerk that she was going to check the Chancery one more time for Ulondil.

Razum-dar was waiting for her on Mistral’s inner bridge, leaning with studied casualness against the railing; Vari wasn’t with him.

“You have a smug look that bodes well,” Razum-dar greeted her. 

His expression when Fayawen pulled the treaty out of her trousers was priceless, but he took it from her without hesitation, his eyes scanning it eagerly.

“Where’s Vari?” Fayawen asked as he flipped a page.

“Hm? Oh, this one employed her in delaying Ulondil, who was heading back toward the Embassy. You are to meet her outside the armorer’s house, above the smithy.”

“Why there?”

“Because the armorer was kind enough to give up his home to the Silvenar and the Green Lady during their stay. You’ll want to present this treaty to the Silvenar directly, I presume?” He glanced up at her, then continued reading.

Fayawen felt her cheeks flush pleasantly at the idea. The Silvenar probably wouldn’t approve of the exact way she’d gotten hold of the treaty, but he’d certainly be pleasantly surprised that she’d managed to produce a copy at all.

“Yeah, I’ll take it to ‘im,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I didn’t read it - see anyfing interesting?”

“Only that it was clearly signed under great duress and has more holes than a Skyrim cheese wheel. But your Silvenar will know how best to make use of it.” Raz tore his eyes away with seeming reluctance and handed the paper back to Fayawen. “This one would suggest holding it in your hand, this time. The Green Lady may not appreciate you presenting her mate with things from inside your trousers.”

Fayawen’s flush deepened. “Right,” she said.

Since escaping Oblivion and dropping into the sea in the midst of a hurricane, Fayawen had seen a number of unusual things, but the sight of her new flame-throwing Khajiit friend sitting in awkward silence with the Green Lady of Valenwood won the prize for sheer improbability. The Green Lady looked deceptively like any other Bosmer, albeit clad in rather intricate green-dyed hunting leathers. Her hair was exactly the same common shade of red as Fayawen’s. At the moment she sat with casual alertness in a chair on the little landing at the top of the stairs running along the outside of the smithy. She bore no outward mark of power, but even more than with the Silvenar, Fayawen could sense the magic of Valenwood emanating from her.

Upon reaching the landing Fayawen reverently sank to one knee; in response the Green Lady gestured curtly for her to rise. 

“What is it you want?” the Lady asked. Her voice was sultry, like the humid air of Grahtwood. “I assume you’re the one this Khajiit has been waiting for?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said Fayawen. “I have the treaty the Silvenar wanted.”

“I’ve convinced him to take a break from all this Dominion nonsense,” said the Lady. “Even the Soul of Valenwood needs rest.” Then she sighed faintly and added, “But he’s been obsessed with this treaty all day, so you have five minutes. Stay longer than that and I will remove you personally.”

She meant from the room, surely, and not from existence, but Fayawen wasn’t going to take a chance. With another deep bow to the Green Lady, she opened the door to the armorer’s home.

Almost as soon as she crossed the threshold, her instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong. She lowered her gaze and saw the Silvenar sprawled on the rug, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. Her breath caught in her throat, bringing with it a very faint but unmistakable trace of sulfur. 

Unthinkingly, she rushed to the Silvenar and knelt at his side, the treaty falling unheeded to the floor. Though there was no blood on the rug, nor any sign of wounds on his body, the Silvenar was clearly dead. His arm was chill where her fingertips touched it, and a gnat was making its way slowly over his lower eyelid. 

What did it mean for Valenwood if its soul died? Was her homeland empty inside now, like Fayawen herself? Trembling with a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite sort out, Fayawen shooed the blasphemous insect and closed the Silvenar’s eyes.

“_What have you done_?” Behind her in the doorway, the Green Lady’s voice was terrible: every venomous serpent in Malabal Tor, every fanged predator in Greenshade, every poison-drenched thorn in Grahtwood, channeled into one sound.

Fayawen stood and turned toward her, heart pounding. “I found him like this,” she said. “He’s cold.”

“No!” The Green Lady moved to his body, roughly displacing Fayawen and laying a hand against the Silvenar’s cheek. Fayawen could see the shock that ran through her when she felt the chill of his flesh; she withdrew her hand and held it against her chest. Slowly, the rage returned to her eyes, but this time it was not directed at Fayawen. The Green Lady stared into the middle distance as though she intended to riddle something in it with arrows. 

“This was murder,” she said. “Foul sorcery. I will find the one responsible, and they will not die as quietly as my soul did. This is Harrani’s village; she will know who is to blame, or I’ll shorten her tail until she does.”

“Were you outside the room the entire time he—”

“Go,” snapped the Green Lady. “Leave me with him.”

“Yes, my lady.” Fayawen fled the armorer’s flat, nearly running into Vari, who had been attempting to eavesdrop.

“Friend,” Vari whispered with wide blue eyes as she took Fayawen’s shoulders to steady her. “What has happened?”

“Someone murdered the Silvenar,” Fayawen whispered shakily. “With magic.”

“No…” said Vari, whiskers drooping. “He was so kind.”

“We need to tell Harrani,” said Fayawen, grabbing Vari’s arms. “We’d best get to her before the Green Lady does; I don’t think her method of questioning will do much for relations between Mistral and the Dominion.”

Headwoman Harrani was still at the Chancery, clearly feeling tense and disoriented by the sudden break in diplomatic talks with all the conflicts still simmering in the air. When she saw Fayawen and Vari her ears flattened.

“This one has said all she has to say on the matter of the treaty,” she said. “And now is not the best time to—”

“The Silvenar’s dead,” Fayawen interrupted.

Harrani’s look of shock was clearly unfeigned; for a few moments she could not seem to form words, and her white fur bristled as though someone had pointed a blade at her. “How?” she finally spluttered. “He was here scarcely more than an hour ago! Could such a benevolent man have enemies?”

“We were hoping you might have answers to these questions,” Vari said gently. “You know this town and its recent conflicts better than we do.”

She shook her head. “It makes no sense! Was not the Green Lady guarding the only door to his room? The town guards have been alert, and they have reported no signs that anyone was moving against him. Are you certain it was not an accident, or natural causes?”

“I’m dead sure magic was involved,” said Fayawen. “And so’s the Green Lady.”

Harrani’s fur bristled again. “This will not stand!” she said. “Consider this port closed until we find who is responsible. No ship enters or leaves here, and this one will post guards at the roads from town as well. Let us hope that this wicked sorcerer has not already escaped.” She started making for the exit even as she continued talking over her shoulder in her haste. “Harrani must redeploy the guards immediately, but she is making you both deputies of the Mistral guard until this is settled. Look on my desk there for the guards’ most recent reports. Perhaps something there that did not seem suspicious to this one holds a clue for you.”

Fayawen moved toward the desk, glanced at the papers and sighed as the heavy doors closed behind Harrani. “I’m not the fastest reader even when people’s ‘andwriting isn’t terrible,” she said. “Vari, can you--?”

“Of course,” Vari purred. “Let us see what we have.” She sifted through the papers, her eyes scanning them rapidly and with confidence. “No…” she said distractedly, “this is nothing, very boring, so is this, nothing here… hm.” She held one up. “Maybe this strangely sweaty and evasive apothecary has something on his conscience?...” 

“Good finkin’,” said Fayawen. “They sell magical ingredients and wotnot, right?”

Vari flipped to another report. “This is a great deal of nothing… and this, and… hm, strange noises in the warehouse to the north, but no one there when the guard investigated… interesting… this one is nothing, that one is also likely nothing… oh! One of the Maormer on the ship _Serpent’s Kiss_ threw a beggar overboard into the ocean because he was ‘snooping around’.” She looked up, eyes bright with curiosity. “The guards did nothing, it says, because the captain gets to make the rules on her own ship, but the violence of her reaction to some poor wretch likely looking for food suggests perhaps they have something on the ship they wish to hide.”

“Nice work, Vari,” said Fayawen, patting her back. “It’s good at least one of the Mistral guard deputies ‘as ‘alf a brain. You fink you can check out the ware’ouse while I question the apoffecary?”

Fayawen was actually planning to head straight to the Maormer ship, but she had a feeling Vari wouldn’t let her do something so dangerous alone, and Vari was too… unpredictable for such a delicate situation. The apothecary sounded boring, so as Fayawen had suspected, Vari let her go alone without a fuss. Fayawen hadn’t lied exactly; she’d be heading right past the apothecary on her way there, so she’d check in on her way back.

When she left the Chancery, there was no way she could have missed the loud argument taking place between Vicereeve Pelidil and Ambassador Ulondil, so it absolutely didn’t count as eavesdropping, even if she did slow her stride to make sure she caught all of the details.

“And by what twisted logic,” Vicereeve Pelidil was saying acidly, stroking his ginger goatee, “does the primary suspect in an investigation become the most appropriate person to take charge of it?”

“My point exactly,” Ulondil returned, icy.

“I’m a suspect?” said Pelidil in astonishment. “I murdered my own diplomat? You’re even more unhinged than I presumed, which is no mean feat.”

“The one person looking to broker a peaceful solution to the Dominion’s grave misstep dies under mysterious circumstances, leaving conquest the only option for you? Everyone knows that a violent confrontation is what you’ve been screaming for ever since you arrived.”

“I won’t listen to any more of this nonsense. I have an investigation to conduct.”

“As do I.”

As did Fayawen. She shook her head at the posturing politicians and picked up her pace, turning toward the salty breeze that blew in from shore. Fayawen wished she knew enough about ships to draw conclusions about the Maormer from the look of the vessel docked at Mistral, but all ships looked more or less the same to her. All she could tell was that the captain had no plans to go anywhere soon; the sails were furled and there was no visible activity on deck.

No one objected to Fayawen casually strolling up the ramp right onto the deck of the ship, but the captain herself appeared and stopped her as she started to head toward the hold.

“Not so fast, land-rat,” she said, drawing her blade and holding it sideways in Fayawen’s path. “It seems half the town has a craving to get tossed overboard.”

Fayawen decided to try a variation on the lie that had worked with the Embassy clerk.

“It was one of you sent me,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. “Sort o’ scruffy fellow, down the beach a ways souf’? Boromil or Doronil or somefing like that?”

“Thorodil? The… quartermaster?”

As usual, Yff’re smiled on his favored talespinners. “Aye, Thorodil, that sounds right. ‘E didn’t say wot ‘e was master of, just gave me good coin to bring some supplies below your decks for ‘im.”

“Supplies? Let me see.”

“Um… lemme remember this part.” Fayawen did her best to appear confused and stupid; she’d always found it fairly easy to convince leaf-eaters of this. “Let’s see… ‘e said to tell you, the eagles ‘ave sharp eyes, so it’s best you don’t ‘ave answers for anyfing they might ask you. Somefing like that. That make any sense? It sure don’t to me. Maybe I got it wrong?”

The captain narrowed her eyes, then slowly replaced her sword in her scabbard. “We never met,” she said, then decisively turned her back.

Fayawen hurried down into the hold before the captain could spot any holes in Fayawen’s story. The absence of crew made a search quick and easy, but she still had to open several chests full of utterly uninteresting nautical supplies before she found the mother lode: a locked chest that wasn’t difficult to pick, and turned out to be full of suspiciously familiar uniforms. Exactly the sort worn by the Sea Vipers Onglorn had slaughtered at Shattered Shoals. 

Fayawen closed the chest and let it lock again so that the captain wouldn’t have any reason to get suspicious and move the goods. Later, Fayawen could direct the authorities here to prove a link between the pirates who were trying to destroy Khenarthi’s Roost and the “legitimate” Maormer who were supposedly looking after the place.

Now, to find out if and how the apothecary was mixed up in all this mess.

By the time Fayawen doubled back to the apothecary’s, Ambassador Ulondil was already outside the shop loudly grilling its owner, performing some speech about “high elf treachery” that Fayawen mostly tuned out. Everything he said was hot garbage anyway, and it was too good an opportunity to slip into the shop unseen and poke around.

It was becoming both ironic and annoying that Fayawen kept needing to solve problems using the written word, but sure enough, right there on the counter was a log of the apothecary’s sales. At least his handwriting was neat; he could have made good coin moonlighting as a scribe. 

Carefully Fayawen flipped through the log’s most recent pages, and right away the word _daedra_ leaped out at her multiple times. In the past few days, a customer come in repeatedly to purchase daedra blood… and refused to give a name. There was no way they were just trying to cure the sniffles or spice up their love life. No wonder the apothecary had been nervous around the guards.

The book was too unwieldy to take with her, but Fayawen grabbed some of the apothecary’s blank scratch paper and a pen and copied down the relevant entries in her own considerably less tidy hand. Those she stuffed the folded papers down her pants.

When she found Razum-dar, Vari had gotten there before her. The two Khajiit were standing together on the bridge in what appeared to be comfortable silence

“Wot did you find at the warehouse?” said Fayawen to her friend as she jogged up to the two of them. It wasn’t quite as fun to annoy Raz with Vari watching, so she waited until he was turned toward Vari to subtly slip the folded papers out of her trousers.

“The Sea Vipers seem to be using the warehouse as a drop point for messages,” Vari said. “This one found one of their little notes. It is all in code and metaphor, but Razum-dar says he knows what it means. He will not tell Vari, though.”

“Raz does not want to worry you,” he said, “since we are going to stop them anyhow. What did you find, my Bosmer friend?”

“Two fings,” said Fayawen. “One, there's Sea Viper uniforms below decks on the so-called respectable Maormer’s ship.” Vari narrowed her eyes slowly; Fayawen hurried on. “Also I copied down some entries from the apoffecary’s log while Ulondil was makin’ a show of grillin’ ‘im outside the shop.”

“Let me see that,” said Razum-dar. As he took it from her, he gave her a sly look. “This one did not see these in your hand when you arrived…” But as he scanned the paper, his ears slowly flattened. “Dark moons. These amounts and times of day are exactly as in the log? You are certain?”

“I made sure of the numbers,” Fayawen said. “One or two of the words may be a bit off.”

Razum-dar managed a wry half-smile, even though he was obviously tense. “You spelled daedra three different ways,” he said. “But that is neither here nor there. Let us hope that Khenarthi herself carries you today, for we do not have much time. Another ritual like the one that killed the Silvenar is most likely beginning as we speak.”

“Where?” said Fayawen, her hand twitching toward her bow involuntarily.

“Raz does not know. But the ritual is meant for the Green Lady, and so they must have something of hers. A lock of hair, a drop of blood. This one thinks that she could use her magic to track the missing piece of herself and stop the ritual, if you find her quickly.”

“You know she’s a dead woman walkin’ anyway, right? They killed the Silvenar, and they’re bound by the Green. She don’t ‘ave long before she–”

“Raz did say _quickly_, yes?” There was a hint of steel in his voice Fayawen had not previously heard, and it was enough to straighten her spine.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and took off toward the armorer’s.

***

  
The ritual was taking place in an abandoned shack on stilts by the water, at the very edge of Mistral. The door to the shack fell apart at the Green Lady’s touch as though her wrath alone had dissolved it. Vari was so spooked by the sight that she retreated right back down the narrow steps that led to the porch, nearly stumbling over her own tail. Fayawen steeled herself and followed her Lady.

The Maormer kneeling on the floor whipped her head around in shock as the two women entered. Her filmed, pale eyes were wide as the Green Lady seized her by the throat and dragged her to her feet.

“I was only following… his orders!” the Maormer choked out as best she could around the Green Lady’s hand.

“Whose orders?” Fayawen demanded.

“Ambassador… Ulondil.”

“Knew it!” said Fayawen. “My Lady, we must find ‘im quickly, before he suspects e’s been discovered!”

The Green Lady did not move, did not so much as glance at Fayawen. “Go,” she said in a dark voice. Her eyes burned into the Maormer whose throat she still held. “I am not finished with this one.”

Her tone brooked no resistance, and so Fayawen and left the little shack, seizing Vari's arm and hurrying toward the Chancery. They had scarcely made it twenty steps away from the house before the screaming started. Vari hesitated, but Fayawen grabbed her furry wrist and dragged her onward.

“That is _not_ somethin’ you wanna innerfere in, luv.”

Ulondil, having no idea yet that he'd been revealed, stood in broad daylight in the center of town. He addressed Headwoman Harrani in such loud and haughty tones that Fayawen heard him well before she saw him.

“To no one’s surprise,” he was saying, “the apothecary has multiple connections to politically powerful families in Summerset. It may take some ‘persuasion,’ but it will not be long before my people find out why the Dominion killed their own diplomat.”

“Save it, fish-breath,” said Fayawen as she approached with Vari trailing along panting behind her. “We know wot really ‘appened.”

“You,” said Ulondil with withering scorn. Then his eyes widened in outraged realization. “_You _are the reason for my missing papers. You broke into my office! Guards, this woman--”

“—Didn’t take nuffing of yours. _Your_ copy of the treaty is oh so far away, on your little islands, right? So there wouldn’t _be_ a copy in your office for me to steal, would there? I fink you’ll find everyfing _else_ in your office is just ‘ow you left it, so I guess no one must’ve broke in after all.”

Headwoman Harrani gaped at Fayawen. “You found the treaty in _his_ _office_? Ecch, this one _knew_ the Maormer had stolen it. Harrani _knew!_” She whirled on Ulondil, her fur bristling.

Ulondil opened his mouth, closed it, and then barked out a single note of derisive laughter. “None of this matters,” he said. “What I’ve done, or haven’t done, is irrelevant. The Green Lady and the Silvenar are dead, which means that no one—”

“Oh, she ain’t dead yet,” Fayawen said with a cheery grin. “She’s interrogatin’ her would-be assassin right now. If you listen real careful, I bet you can still ‘ear the screams. Though I’m not sure what more there is for your lackey to say. You wouldn’t _believe_ how fast your name fell out of ‘er mouth.”

For the first time, Ulondil looked hesitant. “The Green Lady can’t be alive.” His pale hands began to worry at one another. “She must be dead, or she’d have come for me. She – she’s coming, isn’t she.” Slowly, he took a step backward. 

“You are going nowhere!” cried Harrani. “Guards, apprehend him!”

Ulondil backed away more decisively. “I’m a duly appointed – you cannot touch me! You cannot stop the Tempest!” With that, he bolted. Fayawen spotted what he didn’t, and pointed so Harrani could see: the Green Lady, crouched silently atop the very archway he was fleeing under, tracking him with her eyes. She landed soundlessly in his wake, sprinting after him the moment she hit the ground.

Headwoman Harrani turned to the gape-mouthed Khajiit guards nearby. “Go after her! More slaughter is not the answer! We must learn his plans!”

The nearest guard shook his head. “This one is sorry, Headwoman, but he does not dare to cross the Green Lady.”  
  
“She might listen to me,” said Fayawen. “I can try, at least.”

“Go!” Harrani pleaded. “I must go and apologize to Vicereeve Pelidil… and find out what we can do for the Dominion.”

***

The only reason Fayawen caught up to the Green Lady in time to plead for Ambassador Ulondil’s life was that the Lady had no intention of giving him a clean death. She’d been merciful to the clerk who’d tried to stop her, snapping his neck so quickly he probably didn’t even realize he was dead yet. He was probably still arguing with her in Aetherius.

Ulondil’s screams didn’t stop when the Green Lady turned toward Fayawen from where she knelt over him, flecks of blood on her face, larger splashes across her arms and chest. Fayawen’s prepared speech about mercy dried up like tears in Hammerfell.

“The uh, the ‘eadwoman… wants… to question…”

The Green Lady simply stared back at her, eyes hollow. From the floor beside her, Ulondil’s scream broke on a wretched sob.

Fayawen took a step forward, holding her palms out, placatingly. “Green Lady…”  
  
“What would _you_ do?” The Lady’s voice was the distant whisper of the dead. “If the one who stole your soul lay helpless within your grasp. Would you show mercy?”

Fayawen felt a chill. _The one who stole your soul_. Was it just a turn of phrase... or did the Green Lady know?

A memory flickered through her consciousness: just a flash. A high elf. Pale, haughty. _Smiling. _The last face she’d seen before Oblivion.

Fayawen’s hands curled into fists, and she began to shake – not with fear, but with _rage_, with the futile and desperate need to find that white-haired Altmer and tear him apart.

For a moment she gazed with full understanding into the Green Lady’s empty eyes. Then she inclined her head slowly and left the Green Lady to her work.

***

Mistral seemed a different and more somber place that evening, in the calm after so much suffering. Cheerful torches were lit in in the outdoor tavern to ward off the dusk, but a cool breeze blew in off the sea, giving Fayawen goosebumps. Razum-dar arrived with drinks and seated himself comfortably between Fayawen and Vari, passing them their mugs.

"Thanks in no small part to the evidence you little raindrops uncovered," he said warmly, "Headwoman Harrani was all too happy to renounce her relationship with the Maormer and sign a new treaty with the Dominion. But our work is not done here, unfortunately. This 'Tempest' Ulondil spoke of remains, shall we say, elusive. We must remain on our guard until we are certain we have fully disrupted the Maormer's plans."

Fayawen nodded, distracted. She felt a tug on her mind, an almost physical sensation of being drawn away, to the east. "Ey," she said. "Fanks for the drink, but... awright if I take a walk alone for a while? Got a lot on my mind."

Vari, obviously assuming it was a ruse to leave the two Khajiit alone, beamed a grateful smile from Razum-dar's other side. Fayawen smiled back wryly.

Her feline mentor grinned, showing sharp teeth. "Raz is perfectly capable of holding an entire conversation all by himself, if that is what you mean. Stay sharp, and do not wander far. This one will have further need of you, very soon."

As Fayawen crossed the small town toward the armory, she contemplated the strange career she’d literally fallen into. Somberly she climbed the stairs toward the apartment above. She found the Green Lady sitting and staring out over the ocean. The Lady did not look at Fayawen as she arrived, but spoke as though they’d been sitting there together all along.

"I can almost feel his hand on mine," the Lady said. "I can hear him whisper, 'All things find their way.' But they won't. He's gone forever, and I'm soon to follow."

Fayawen studied the Green Lady, something stirring in the back of her mind, but not quite waking. "Wot ‘appens then?" she said carefully, settling against the rail of the balcony. "Wot ‘appens to Valenwood?"

"There will always be a Silvenar," came the soft reply, "and a Green Lady. But as for _me_ – as for the girl they once called Finoriell -- this is the last she'll look on this world."

"’Ow long… do you ‘ave?" Fayawen’s voice came out rough.

"Not long.” The Green Lady’s fists clenched, slowly, as though in a dream. “But before I fade into the Green, I'll find the place the Maormer call home, and I will drown those fiends in Mara's tears."

Fayawen was silent for a moment. Then she said, very softly, "My soul's gone too. Maybe I-- maybe I should come wif you."

Finally the Green Lady – Finoriell – looked at Fayawen. She shook her head. "Not gone," she said in a flat, distant voice. "Your soul is far away, and beyond your reach… but it still lives. Until you have it back, the Green is closed to you.” 

Fayawen felt the blood drain from her face. “I… can’t even _die_?”

“Your soul cannot pass from where it is held, cannot know peace -- not until you free it.” Finoriell turned her gaze back toward the sea. “You will meet me again, and aid me, but I will wear another's face, and I will not know you. For now, leave me to my grief."

Fayawen retreated respectfully, shaken by the truth she had sensed in the Lady's almost trance-like words.

_The Green is closed to you._

Wrapping her arms around herself, Fayawen gazed out toward the twilight-shadowed ocean, the ocean she’d almost drowned in. Or had she? If what Finoriell had said was true, what would have happened if her lungs had filled with water and she’d sunk to the bottom? How did it even _work_, when your body was in one place and your soul in another?

She needed answers, but until she got off this island she had no chance of finding them. It looked as though, like Khenarthi’s Roost itself, she would have to throw her lot in with the Dominion after all.

“Balls,” she said quietly to the darkened sea. 


	4. Ebonheart Pact Novella 1: The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drevas Gilvayn, stranded on Bleakrock Isle, befriends a mysterious Nord from the Reach while investigating a possible invasion.

Morning Star, CE 582

The villagers of Bleakrock Isle must have assumed two madmen would understand each other. That was the only possible logic that could explain why Drevas Gilvayn, by almost unanimous request, had spent six days in a row cutting wood with the Reachman.

The worst of it was, the villagers were apparently right. In a strange way, Drevas had already grown attached to old man Yavni. Perhaps Yavni helped fill the hole once occupied by the eccentric friend he'd left languishing in Oblivion. Or perhaps Drevas just liked people who didn't talk much. 

As Drevas stomped through the dim snowy woods to find Yavni on Mondas evening, abrasive flurries blew off the ice-crusted drifts, simultaneously making him sorry he’d left the Earth-Turners’ warm log home and reminding him why he had. Drevas had finally convinced Aera Earth-Turner to let the Reachman sleep on the floor by the cot she’d offered Drevas a week ago. 

These Nord pig-farmers baffled him. They would welcome a Dark Elf into their home right away, while leaving a member of their own race out in the cold? Despite what they called him, Yavni wasn't a Reachman -- just a Nord with a Reachman’s accent. He was _from_ the Reach, and carried the trappings of that savage culture in his dress, his magic, and his peculiar affinity for the wilds. But surely he didn't seem more foreign and unreliable to them than a Dark Elf who claimed not to remember his own name?

Drevas did remember it, but unfortunately it belonged to a dead man, so he was going to have to think of another. His given name was fine; every third Dunmer was named Drevas. But he couldn’t mention his family name to the two other Dunmer on the island, and that pair had the dubious honor of leading the Bleakrock garrison, thanks to an apparently disastrous failure of command on Captain Rana's part back in Morrowind last year. Rana and Sergeant Seyne would likely recognize Gilvayn as a family name of House Indoril and do the right thing by contacting them. Drevas suspected that pious House Indoril might not take kindly to one of their own still walking around after his death.

Perhaps Drevas could take a descriptive surname as the Nords did. Ironically, the one that suited him best was Yavni's: "Twice-Born."

The blue fire of the Wayshrine north of the village served as Drevas’s guide in the gathering gloom. The steady magical flame was sheltered by a distinctive gabled roof whose ridge boasted two stylized figureheads at either end, vaguely draconic in appearance. It was at this shrine that Drevas and Yavni had parted ways after the day’s wood-gathering for the village, and so it was here that Drevas scoured the snow for any sign of the man’s next destination. 

The fierce wind had buried the north steps of the shrine in snow and carried it all the way to the base of the brazier. Avoiding the slippery spots and looking out toward the west from the flame, Drevas thought he could see the softened tracks of Yavni’s mount disappearing toward Hozzin’s Folly. Bundling his borrowed furs more tightly around himself, Drevas set out to follow the trail.

Yavni typically sheltered on the south side of the island – perhaps he’d gone west in search of some of the herbs that grew stubbornly in the lee of the rocks near the Folly. Yavni was an alchemist of some skill, which surprised Drevas given how feral he seemed. He was also unnaturally hale for a man of his obvious years; he tossed logs onto carts as though they were made of paper. 

The tracks became easier to follow as Drevas progressed toward the abandoned western settlement; he could begin to make out the cloven shape of the animal’s hooves, like a molar pulled out by the roots. Drevas was amused by the huge, eccentric elk Yavni rode; it had a quasi-suicidal look in its eyes at all times. If it had a name, Drevas didn’t know it, but its constant aura of despair made the animal, like its owner, seem a sort of spiritual kin to Drevas.

In life he had not been a man given to despair, but his soul was now trapped in Coldharbour – Molag Bal’s realm of Oblivion – a place Drevas had managed to physically escape at great cost. Three years had passed on Nirn while he was gone, according to furtive perusals of Captain Rana’s journal. (He’d also learned from those perusals that Tillrani Snow-Bourne had formerly been the captain of the local garrison, and no one here was happy with a Dark Elf swooping in to take over.)

Drevas’s time in Coldharbour had felt much, much longer than three years, but three years was long enough to make things awkward. Anyone who might have grieved him would be at peace by now and in no mood to hear that he was still wandering around empty-souled. Were there even any such people? His life seemed so distant; what he remembered of it could fit in the palm of one hand. His most vivid memories were of his time in Coldharbour and of his friend there, Etienne Renaud.

Drevas had no idea where the man was now. Drevas had seen a high-handed Imperial girl escape through the Anchor, along with a rebellious Bosmer and a few others, but Etienne had still been lingering when Drevas left. The Breton didn’t _want_ to return, and Drevas understood why. They'd collaborated against their fellow prisoners just to survive in a place they had no hope of leaving. Unlike Etienne, though, Drevas felt driven to carve out a new and better life for himself now that the chance had been offered to him.

For now, that meant ferreting out every scrap of information he could about this frigid Skyrim island and its backward inhabitants, even if that reduced him to eavesdropping and poking through people’s correspondence. Aera Earth-Turner and her family were all surprisingly literate and given to rambling in their journals, which had helped Drevas get his bearings quickly. Ironically, it seemed that when he’d plummeted out of Oblivion he’d washed up just across a narrow sea channel from Morrowind – the homeland whose memory had convinced him to risk everything in escaping. But there was no way off this forsaken island. A bleak rock, indeed.

There! Beneath a tree some distance east of Hozzin’s Folly, Drevas spotted Yavni Twice-Born’s shaggy silver hair in the shadows. The old man stood still and straight, one hand on his miserable elk. Drevas let his approaching footsteps crunch loudly in the snow so as not to startle Yavni, but the Nord didn’t even turn. 

Yavni had a harrowed face and untidy hair, but even at his age there was something arresting in his bone structure and his pale gray eyes. Especially now, as he stared out toward the ruins of Hozzin’s Folly like a hawk watching a hare.

“What is it?” Drevas said softly, not expecting the old man to answer. Yavni simply pointed toward the settlement. Drevas followed his gaze and saw it too: torches in the darkness. Two… no, three. 

The settlement was supposedly abandoned. A “prospector” had come with his “family” from the mainland years ago to work the nearby mine, but Drevas inferred from gossip and several old journal entries that the group had likely been Daedric cultists setting up a shrine. Roaring sounds had been heard one day from the mine, and the tiny settlement had burned shortly thereafter. Its inhabitants had apparently annoyed whatever Daedric Prince they’d meant to appease; their bodies were all found charred nearly to ash. The garrison had boarded up the mine afterward, and that was that.

So who was in the ruins of the settlement, now, and why?

“Bandits,” said Yavni softly in his deep, guttural voice, as though reading Drevas’s thoughts.

“Idiots,” said Drevas, and blew futilely on his aching fingers. “There’s nothing left there to plunder.”

“The mine,” Yavni said. He was downright talkative tonight.

“They’ve broken into the mine?”

Yavni nodded.

“Most peculiar.” He eyed Yavni. If the cold bothered the old man, it didn’t show; his shaggy hair blew freely in the wind. “We’ll report it when we return to the village,” Drevas said. “I want you to come with me, sleep indoors tonight. It’s just too cold out here.”

“Bollocks,” said Yavni.

“I spoke with Aera Earth-Turner, and she said it’s all right. We can put some furs down beside my cot. Their house is warm and dry. It has to be better than out here.” Drevas laid a hand on Yavni’s elbow, but the larger man shrugged it off with an annoyed grunt. “Don’t be that way,” persisted Drevas irritably. “Come. I walked all the way back out here in the freezing cold to fetch you.”

“Didna ask it.”

“Are you truly not coming back with me?”

Yavni shook his head.

“Well,” said Drevas. He folded his arms but didn't persist. It was too damned cold to linger here arguing. “I suppose I’ll head back and let Captain Rana know about the bandits," he said. "Unless you were planning on delivering a full report yourself?”

Yavni didn’t even dignify that with a headshake. With a sigh, Drevas turned away from his new friend and retraced his steps back to town. At least the trip hadn’t been a complete waste; this information would put him in good stead with Captain Rana. Or – given that Rana was already predisposed to like him for raising the number of Dunmer on the island to three – perhaps he could use this opportunity to gain an otherwise-impossible foothold with Rana’s local rival, Tillrani Snow-Bourne?

He spotted Tillrani on the steps of the crafters’ hall, chatting with Trynhild Earth-Turner, Aera’s rebellious redheaded daughter. Of everyone in the Earth-Turner household, Tryn was the most openly hostile to Drevas. Buttering up someone she admired might help smooth things with her.

“Captain Snow-Bourne,” Drevas said in greeting to the fair-haired older woman, knowing full well that the title no longer applied. “I thought you should know; I spotted a handful of bandits poking around the ruins of Hozzin’s Folly.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling that to Captain Rana?” Tillrani said, testy as usual. At her side, Tryn gave Drevas a look that made the biting wind feel like a caress by comparison.

“I suppose I shall,” said Drevas, “but I wanted to make certain that you were aware also, given… well, you know.”

“No,” said Tillrani flatly. “I don’t.”

By the Three, these people were hard to read. Assuming they had similar trouble reading him, Drevas tried to make it almost comically obvious how carefully he was choosing his next words.

“I don’t wish to speak ill of one of my own countrymen…” he said hesitantly, and let it trail off.

Something fierce sparked in Tillrani’s ice-blue eyes, and for a moment Drevas worried that he’d offended her further. Instead she blew out an audible breath of relief and said, “Thank the Divines! Even _you_ see it. She’s completely unfit.”

Drevas made an exaggerated show of feeling torn.

“Not because she’s a Dark Elf!” Tillrani insisted. “I mean _you_ no offense, and I support the Pact. I’ll follow a Dark Elf’s orders, or an Argonian’s, if they’re good orders. But Rana… she’s so damned indecisive! She’s got to call a whole committee just to decide when to take a piss.”

Drevas looked around furtively, then took a step closer to the two women and lowered his voice. “I think she may be overcompensating for the hasty call she made in Morrowind that got her sent here.”

“_Really?”_ This from flame-haired Tryn, who now seemed fully invested in the conversation.

“I shouldn’t say more,” Drevas said. “But I wanted to tell you about the bandits first. I thought perhaps you could quietly implement a solution while Rana is still trying to decide what to do.”

Tillrani gave a curt nod. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention,” she said.

“I’ll see Mr. Drevas back home,” said Tryn. And for the first time that Drevas had observed in a week on the island, the young woman smiled.

***

Morning dawned cold and clear; Drevas waited for the farmers to leave the house to care for the animals before forcing himself out from under his heavy quilt to dress in his borrowed furs. Given his warning to Tillrani about the bandits, he would not have been surprised to find the garrison missing a few of its soldiers, but when he ventured outside, he found the village more deserted than he expected.

Bleakrock had been a garrison first, due to its strategic position in the waters between Skyrim’s Eastmarch and Morrowind’s Vvardenfell. The settlers had come later, compensated generously for setting up homes, tending livestock, and providing the comforts of civilization. But military still outnumbered civilians by a generous margin on the island, and so when present, the soldiers accounted for the lion’s share of the noise and activity.

Letting his eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight, Drevas did a quick survey of the town. The Earth-Turner family was all accounted for: young Littrek with the pigs, his father Denskar across the way with the aurochs bull and two handsome red cows. Aera stood on Tillrani’s porch and glared across the village at her wayward daughter already at work at the forge. Trynhild had insisted on apprenticing under the local smith Maesa with hopes of plying a trade on the mainland, but Aera would have preferred her daughter learn to cook and sew and settle down with the malodorous fisherman whom Drevas had overheard speculating loudly as to whether _all_ Tryn’s hair matched the fires of the forge.

Everything in town seemed calm… except that virtually the entire population of the garrison was missing, and Tillrani Snow-Bourne stood on the platform beneath the town’s central statue as though preparing for a speech. Bare tattooed arms folded, she radiated tension even from a distance.

Drevas approached her, uneasy despite the giddy blue of the morning sky and the false feeling of spring in the air. Without the constant banter and shouting of the soldiers, the rush of wind and sea sounded lonely and vast. The occasional squawk of a chicken or grunt of a pig, a cheery call from an artisan at the trading hall – these signs of life were all immediately swallowed by the cold, ominous emptiness.

“Where is everyone?” Drevas said in an undertone to Tillrani as he approached the stone statue. It depicted an enormous Nord man with a huge battleaxe and a horned helmet, a snarling wolf posed menacingly just behind him. Tillrani stood braced at the statue’s feet as though borrowing its powers of intimidation.

“Ask your Captain Rana,” she said bitterly. “She’s the one who piled nearly everyone in the boat first thing this morning.”

“What boat? What’s happening?”

Tillrani narrowed her eyes against the morning glare and stared into the middle distance. “Jan at the tower sighted a Breton ship. I say we need to signal the mainland and evacuate.”

“We’re evacuating?” Drevas’s heart leapt. Surely, they’d take him as well. A way off the island, and he wouldn’t have to buy passage with coin he had no way of earning.

“No,” Tillrani said irritably. “We’re not. Rana decided she had to send the whole damned garrison out in our only caravel to make certain it’s not a merchant. She’s wasting time! I saw that ship with my own eyes, and sure as I’m breathing, it’s the Daggerfall Covenant.”

The phrase took a moment to register in Drevas’s memory. Whereas the Dunmer had roped Nords and Argonians into an alliance to repel the invading Akaviri, on the other side of the continent the Bretons had joined forces with their old enemies the Redguards and Orcs. He wasn’t certain which threat the Covenant had originally united to face, but apparently as of two years ago, they and the Pact were at war over the Ruby Throne. And while the soldiers here seemed sufficient to drive off raiders or bandits, an army was something else altogether.

“I’ll go and talk to Rana,” Drevas said.

“What good will it do?” snapped Tillrani. “Too late to call back the caravel. It’s a trading ship, not a warship; they’re all going to die out there.”

Drevas kept his mouth shut so as not to further antagonize Tillrani and headed for the garrison’s headquarters: the largest building in the village and the only one with two stories. It stood on a hill behind a massive gray stone retaining wall; the rough-timbered structure seemed to watch over the smaller ones like a mother hen protective of her chicks.

The upper story was mostly sleeping quarters; he’d awakened there himself after washing ashore. Captain Rana now sat at her desk on the lower floor, facing the roaring fireplace and making notes in her journal with a feather quill. At the sound of the heavy door closing behind Drevas, she looked up.

“First bandits, now the Daggerfall Covenant?” Drevas greeted her.

“We don’t know that,” said Captain Rana, looking back down at her journal. She was a fine woman of pure blood, her jet-black hair pulled into a tight knot that revealed the elegant symmetry of her bone structure. House Redoran, most likely, given her martial tendencies. “I’ll not disrupt these people’s lives and frighten them half to death without some better evidence than Tillrani’s dire assessment of a distant ship through a morning fog. The caravel is fast, and my men are good at handling it; they’ll be back by midday at the latest with their report.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Drevas said. “I’ve seen combat before.” When she eyed his slender frame dubiously, he added, “I’m a sorcerer, not a warrior.” In point of fact he was a necromancer, not a sorcerer, but necromancy had long been outlawed in every civilized nation of Tamriel, so practitioners had learned not to advertise.

“Do you know anything about Daedra?”

“I dare say more than anyone you’ve ever met. In fact, while the sea stole much of my memory, I do remember banding together recently with a small group to defeat the schemes of a Daedric Prince.”

Captain Rana lifted a single pointed brow. “Is that so? Well then. True or not, if you’re really willing to help, you can head west and back up Sergeant Seyne at Hozzin’s Folly. I sent her to check out Tillrani’s bandit rumors at dawn, and she hasn’t reported back yet. It isn’t _that_ far, so she’s either in trouble or she’s plotting something against them. In either case, she could likely use a sorcerer’s help, especially if you could detect any signs of Daedric nonsense coming from that cave.”

“Yes, Captain.” Drevas gave her a polite bow. “Will it be all right if I find Yavni first?”

Rana gave him a blank look.

“Yavni Twice-Born,” he said. Then clarified, “The Reachman,” when she still showed no sign of recognition.

“Oh!” She blinked. “Well, I suppose so, if you trust him not to knife you in the back and then raise you from the dead. He’s certainly a big enough brute, should you run into trouble. Oh, and if you find any of our other hunters out there in the wilds, do send them back to town. I still think there will be no need for an evacuation, but I’d prefer to be able to keep an eye on everyone until this is sorted out.”

***

Before setting out, Drevas gathered the few supplies he’d managed to obtain for himself these past few days foraging on the island. He hadn’t had the heart to make Yavni split the meager pittance the villagers paid him for the wood, and so all of his current belongings were either borrowed, stolen, looted, or handmade.

He’d carved an inferno staff at the local crafting and trading hall two days previous, using nearly-forgotten skills on a fallen branch. Aera Earth-Turner had given him a threadbare bag the first day, and he had been using to store the useful materials he’d made and looted over the past week: dried bear meat, pen and paper, sinew thread, a crude bone needle, and so on. But the bag was currently with Yavni; Drevas no longer felt safe keeping it at the Earth-Turners’ place thanks to a foolish mistake on his fourth day. 

On an impulse, he’d swiped an grand soul gem from Majolrun, the gaunt Nord who ran the local enchanting stall with shocking inattentiveness. Even empty, the gem could have easily bought him passage to Morrowind and comfortable lodging besides. But he hadn’t thought it through; the only possible market for such a thing on Bleakrock Isle was the very man he’d stolen it from. And if anyone found it in his bag, they’d know it was stolen. They’d toss him in a cell and leave him to rot. After Coldharbour, Drevas had had enough of prisons to last him a lifetime.

Drevas found Yavni waiting at the shrine as he had the past few mornings. Drevas retrieved his bag from where Yavni had slung it over the enormous elk’s saddle and filled the old man in on the day’s plan. If the old man had any objection to chopping bandits rather than wood this day, he was kind enough not to say so. 

As usual Yavni let Drevas mount up behind him; by the end of the first day the experienced woodsman had lost patience with Drevas’s inexperienced trudging through the snow. The wretched animal’s breath misted the cold morning air as it trotted west, the only proof it wasn’t some reanimated corpse or skillfully constructed facsimile.

Sergeant Seyne, locally known as “the other Dark Elf,” stood under the exact same large, spreading tree where Yavni had been the night before, and she was examining a pair of dead Nord bandits sprawled at her feet. Her dark brown hair and paler complexion marked her as a commoner, her blood mixed somewhere in past generations with that of other races. All the same, she seemed a capable enough second-in-command. Her willingness to follow her disgraced commander into exile said a great deal for her loyalty.

As most people did, Seyne looked vaguely unsettled by Yavni and the stag, and so Drevas took the lead in speaking to her as Yavni tied his mount off to a sturdy branch.

“We’re here to help,” said Drevas.

“What a pleasant surprise,” said the sergeant, brows lifting. “I’m used to having to fight everyone here but Rana. Drevas, isn’t it? I can’t recall the surname.”

“That’s all right, neither can I. Nearly drowning can do dreadful things to the mind. But despite my poor memory I’m handy with a spell or two, and Yavni here, well...” He gestured to the hulking Nord, who had already readied his axe and shield.

“If we’re clever,” said Seyne, “you may not need to use those. I was thinking of trying to infiltrate their camp and investigate now that I have these uniforms handy.” 

She gestured to the corpses at her feet. Sure enough, they were dressed in nearly identical armor of leather, chain, and furs. An organized gang, then. Interesting. 

“If you two can put these on and keep a low profile while you search, I can stay here and keep watch, make certain none of them head toward town.”

Drevas eyed Yavni. “How are you at subterfuge?” he said dubiously.

Yavni grunted and began to disrobe.

“Er…” Drevas shifted his weight in the snow. “I think I’ll put the armor on _over_ my clothes, if that’s all right with everyone.”

Seyne smirked as she helped them both into the slightly bloodstained armor. At one point Drevas caught her staring at the shift and flex of Yavni’s abdominal muscles, but her expression was more one of astonishment than interest. Once the two men were fully equipped, they set off down the path toward the burned-out husk of a settlement.

Four buildings clustered around a well in the center; it was impossible to tell what purposes they had each served, as they were now nothing more than sooty stone foundations and blackened, fragmented timber skeletons. The entire area was absolutely crawling with bandits. Twenty to thirty of them from the look of it, either poking through the ruins or just _guarding_ the place with a strange aura of purpose.

“They’re protecting something here,” said Drevas quietly to Yavni. “Let’s split up, eavesdrop, and search. Try not to cross the eyelines of the ones standing guard; they’ll be more alert. Meet me at the entrance to that boarded-up mine after you’ve done a thorough search of the largest building at the end of the path. I’ll check the other three. Don’t pick a fight unless you have to.”

Even as Drevas was still taking a careful visual survey of the area and calculating the safest path, Yavni had already set off toward the farthest building. If the old man hadn’t proven before that he was capable of following complex instructions to the letter, Drevas might have worried he’d wasted his breath.

He wasn’t used to moving about with armor on, which complicated his efforts to blend in as he skirted the edge of the settlement. Rather than scanning the ruined buildings themselves, he kept his eyes on the bandits -- their patterns of movement, where they congregated, where they lingered. He identified an obvious site of interest and moved to get a better view. One of the bandits appeared to be paging through an old battered journal, with another reading over his shoulder. 

Drevas moved closer, doing his best to evade the direct notice of the sentries, and waited for the two to lose interest and move on. One of them, a yellow-haired Nord woman, gave him a nod and a slight smile as she passed, not seeming to realize he didn’t belong. He returned the nod and let her pass.

Trying neither to appear furtive nor to attract unwanted attention, he crossed the threshold of the blackened building. From the appearance of the stone foundation and the timbers he’d been expecting a strong smoky smell, but years and frigid temperatures had left the place smelling like not much at all.

Casually he approached the journal and opened it. It was heavily damaged and impossible to read in some places; the bandits had clearly recovered it from the ruins. As soon as his eyes skimmed over the word “Oblivion,” he glanced over his shoulder and, spotting no eyes on him, slipped the book into his bag. On his way out, the sentry’s head turned toward him.

“Hey,” she said warily. He pretended not to hear her and kept walking. “Hey, you!” she said louder.

Slightly panicked, Drevas approached the yellow-haired Nord who’d nodded to him earlier and clapped her companionably on the shoulder as though she were his destination all along. “How about those crazy cultists!” he said brightly.

She smiled widely, revealing a missing tooth. “Better them than us, I guess,” she said. “I still haven’t found anything good, you? Boss won’t let me go in the mine. He thinks I’m stupid or something.”

“If I find anything, I’ll tell them you helped… if you keep me warm later.”

“Dog!” she said, swatting him on the arm.

Drevas raised his hands in surrender, then glanced over his shoulder at the sentry. His apparent camaraderie with a fellow bandit seemed to have reassured her, as her attention was now elsewhere. He let out a slow breath and took the long way around to the next building to avoid attracting her notice again.

There was nothing of interest in the next ruin, but a portion of the wall was intact enough to shield him from the bandits’ view as he took a more thorough look at the journal.

_The offerings are complete. The Lady of Nightmares has opened the way. We’ve been given our own small pocket of this sacred realm…_

Drevas suppressed a sound of astonishment. The idiotic cultists, years ago, had successfully managed to open a stable portal to Oblivion here! But “Lady of Nightmares”… who was that? The only female Daedric Princes with whom Drevas was familiar were Azura and sometimes Boethiah or Mephala (it was complicated), but “Lady of Nightmares” was not, to his knowledge, a title any of them used. He was aware, however, that he was no true expert on Daedra aside from Molag Bal and his minions. The Princes commonly spoken of in Morrowind were not the only ones who existed. With a pang, Drevas realized that Etienne would have known who this Lady was, for a certainty, for daedra had been his area of specialized study even in life.

Drevas shook off his sudden melancholy. In truth, the Prince’s identity mattered little. Whatever had escaped the portal years ago had been the ruination of this settlement, which was interesting, but not immediately relevant as far as Drevas knew.

The small runestone in the next building was of much, much more interest, particularly in combination with the badly-scrawled note attached to it.

_Keep this stone out of the mine! If you bring it near the Unspeakable Sigil the portal closes! That means no relics, which means no paycheck._

Drevas wasted no time in slipping the stone into his bag. That one small note had given him three crucial pieces of information. And closing active portals to Oblivion was something Drevas could most certainly get behind, even if there was an element of risk involved.

When he arrived at the entrance to the mine, to his surprise Yavni Twice-Born was waiting there for him already, his fog-gray eyes intent and his armor spattered with fresh blood. Drevas didn’t dare ask. As he approached, Yavni held out a roll of parchment. After a moment’s hesitation, Drevas took it from him and unrolled it.

_Memorandum of our Contract:_

_The Frostedge Pillagers are hereby engaged to find relics of power in Hozzin’s Folly and bring them to General Serien, payment to be dependent upon the nature of what is found. Down payment in gold has been offered and accepted._

_Be sure to warn your scouts: the cultists used an old Nord tomb as their worship space. Those hairy bastards love to set traps in their burial mounds. Expect some flame traps. Or sword blades. Or flaming sword blades._

_Cause as much trouble as you like, the more the better. Kill anyone you meet._

_\--General Serien_

“Well,” said Drevas, rolling the parchment back up. “Who is General Serien?” He didn’t expect Yavni to answer; he was used to monologuing after a week in the Nord’s company. “Is it the Covenant, as Tillrani feared? Or that Altmer faction, what’s it called? Could even be someone in the Pact willing to sacrifice a few of our own farmers and fisherfolk for powerful weapons. In any event, this will be of interest to Sergeant Seyne.”

Drevas started off, but Yavni stayed planted by the mine entrance, his gaze still boring into Drevas.

“What? We’ve got more than enough evidence to push Seyne and Rana to action. Let’s get out while we still have all of our limbs.”

Yavni stared at him, pale eyes burning with a quiet rage.

“You’re going to have to say _something_, Twice-Born. I’m not a mind reader.”

The Nord growled. “They’re inn’e tomb.”

“Ahhh,” said Drevas, comprehension dawning. “Desecrating your ah… sacred… area.” Drevas sighed in disappointment. Though Nords were not as terrified of perfectly ordinary ghosts as most Dunmer, it seemed that even they had superstitions and taboos about death. Yavni, though, was from a different culture, one that treated the dead with all the respect of last night’s garbage. Why was this a sticking point for him?

Yavni was unlikely to explain, and he was currently an immovable force.

“You deal with them,” said Drevas, “while I go tell Sergeant Seyne about this contract. You’re probably capable of killing everyone in there on your own.”

Yavni went straight for the door that had been cut into the boarded-up entrance to the mine, tugged on it with demonstrative futility, and then banged on it with his fist.

“Who goes there?” came a strident Nord voice from inside. 

Yavni drew back and looked at Drevas expectantly.

_Oh, for love of the Three._ Yes, the man could fight his way out, but he certainly couldn’t talk his way in. Drevas sighed and turned to the door. “General Serien sent me to evaluate the relics you found.”

“Master Charnis?” There was something like fear in the unseen Nord’s voice.

“That’s right,” Drevas snapped. “Hurry up.”

There was the sound of bars and bolts being hastily removed, and the door groaned open.

Drevas and Yavni shouldered their way past the one who had opened it, and Yavni kicked the door shut behind them.

The Nord who’d admitted them, a scrawny man with a ginger goatee, paled enough at the sight of them that his dismay was clearly visible in the torchlight. “You’re not Charnis,” he said. “Who are you?” He eyed the two of them and, not seeming to like his chances, turned to flee down one of two converging passages.

Yavni’s eyes flared bright blue, and ice crystals shot up from the stone floor of the tunnel to envelop the terrified Nord’s feet. Yavni closed the distance with a ferocious bound and sliced halfway through the man’s neck from behind, nearly severing the guard’s spine in one blow. The guard’s feet were still locked in place, and so his body simply folded at the knees. His severed arteries spurted all over Yavni as he collapsed backward, taking the axe with him. Yavni reached down and freed the blade from bone with a savage jerk that snapped the man’s neck and intensified the force of the spurting.

“Charming,” said Drevas. “Let’s use the other passage, shall we?”

Since they were both still dressed in Frostedge uniforms, and since the scattered inhabitants of the mining tunnels were busy searching behind stalagmites and rubble, the two passed completely unnoticed in the torchlight despite the fact that Yavni’s face was freckled with blood and he was leaving delicate spatters of fresh gore on the frosted silver stone with every step. One woman seemed to have found something valuable and was carefully nailing a crate shut to contain it, but Drevas didn’t dare call attention to them by investigating.

Deeper and deeper they proceeded through the tunnels, until at last the pale stone gave way to the brown masonry and carefully sculpted archways of the ancient Nord tomb the miners had violated. Short flights of steps led them gradually upward. The tomb’s passageways were riddled with traps, but they were crude and easily avoided if one wasn’t an idiot.

Whatever bones had once rested here had long been cleared out. More steps led up into a large chamber at the rear of the complex, and there the eye was immediately drawn to a vertical oval of bright, rose-pink light that pulsated on a central dais. Nearby was a circle of six candles, red runes painted by each of them. Next to the ritual circle was an incongruously homey tent the bandits had set up, but apparently no one currently felt like having a rest next to a gaping Oblivion portal.

Yavni immediately crossed to the circle and kicked over the candles, but that seemed to have no effect on the portal. Drevas wasn’t long behind him. He studied the runes, scuffing them with his boot. Whatever they’d been painted with had dried and would not be easily removed. Thoughtfully he pulled the runestone from his bag and held it toward the portal. Nothing.

“Whit’s tha’?” said Yavni, pointing to the stone.

“I found it in the village with a note that it would close the portal if it was brought near the ‘Unspeakable Sigil’.”

“Whit’s tha’?”

“I don’t know,” said Drevas dryly. “No one spoke of it.”

Yavni grunted and snatched the runestone from Drevas’s hand, studying it.

“It’s possible,” said Drevas, knowing better than to ask for it back before Yavni was finished examining it, “that this Sigil thing is on the other _side_ of the portal. In other words, in Oblivion. I know the idiot bandits have been going back and forth through the portal looking for relics; one of them may have accidentally brought the runestone through and—”

Before Drevas could finish his sentence, Yavni had stepped through the portal, runestone in hand.

“_Wait_!” Drevas called, his voice echoing shrilly back from the walls of the stone chamber. He glanced behind him, worried he’d called attention to himself. If so, there was really nowhere in the room to hide, except—

No.

He’d just escaped Oblivion, barely a week ago.

He gnawed on a knuckle in an agony of indecision. Even if Yavni did actually manage to close the portal with that stone… he’d be on the other side of it. The damned fool hadn’t thought it through. Drevas had to stop him. He stepped forward, but he found that even the smallest approach toward the portal made him sweat and feel phantom irons on his wrists.

Drevas paced back and forth, wringing his hands, even praying to the Three on the off chance they were listening. _Lord, Mother, and Wizard, let him think things through just this once and come back right away._ Drevas did not want to go in there after him, but if he waited much longer, the opportunity to avert disaster might be lost entirely.

“Damn it!” Drevas hissed at last, and then he stepped through the portal.

***

He wasn’t back in Coldharbour, at least. The walls of the ornate, forbidding tunnel were of a dull russet hue, and the mild temperature was a shock after dressing for and adapting to the frigid climate of Bleakrock Isle in midwinter.

Yavni had summoned the good sense to proceed cautiously, and so Drevas was able to spot him farther down the tunnel. The old man moved with a quiet, almost eerie fluidity despite his age, size, and armor. Drevas carefully closed the distance and laid a hand on Yavni’s arm, half expecting the older man to startle at the unexpected contact. Instead Yavni shrugged it off casually, as though he’d assumed Drevas was there all along.

As they continued forward, Drevas tried to get his bearings. On one of the slightly concave walls hung a red banner adorned with a black symbol he could only assume belonged to the Daedric Prince whose domain they had invaded. As best he could without falling too far behind Yavni, Drevas sketched the symbol on the back of Serien’s letter: a twisted vertical serpent behind a… what was that stylized crescent-chevron shape meant to represent? A mask? A bat with upraised wings? None of this was in the least familiar, and Drevas had grown up in a land littered with abandoned Daedric shrines.

The two-legged, splay-eared scamps were familiar, even though the malodorous little creatures hadn’t inhabited Coldharbour’s prison. As the most common sort of daedra to find their way through the cracks into Nirn, many of them had fallen to Drevas’s spells during a lifetime of furtive ruin-delving. Getting past their fitful bursts of fire was irritating, but not dangerous.

What bothered Drevas more was the increasingly vivid and disturbing sensation of shackles on his wrists. He knew it was psychosomatic, but at last it became so convincing that he couldn’t help but lift his sleeve to check, and he could swear that for a hair’s-breadth of a moment, he _saw_ the irons, and not just the scars they had left on his skin. The illusion was gone before he could draw breath to cry out in horror.

At length they came to a chamber with a statue that made the hairs rise on the back of Drevas’s neck. 

“There she is,” he said softly. “The Lady of Nightmares.” She had a woman’s body, but the head of a horned lizard, perhaps even a dragon. In her right hand she gripped an enormous snake as long as she was tall. The snake’s twin coiled around the staff she held in her left. In front of the statue hovered an orb that at the same time emitted both a blinding, fiery light and an almost palpable darkness. As Yavni drew nearer, its light began to fade.

“Stop,” said Drevas. “That must be the Unspeakable Sigil. If you bring the runestone near it, the portal will close.”

Yavni looked at Drevas as though he were a rank imbecile.

“I understand that would be a good thing,” said Drevas, “but not if we are still _on this side of it_.”

Yavni considered for a moment. “Go,” he said. “Ye have till I coont a hundred.”

“And what will you do then? How will you get back out?”

Yavni didn’t answer that. “Leavin’ it open would be bad,” he said instead. “I canna do bad.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Canna. Or … _he_ comes back.”

_Riiiight, I forgot for a moment the old man was barking mad. _“Who?” he said dryly. “Sheogorath?”

Yavni started to shake his head, but then arrested the gesture halfway through. He hesitated. “Mebbe,” he said.

Great. Not only had Drevas escaped Oblivion only to rush back into it a week later, but his companion was quite possibly being courted by the Daedric Prince of Madness. That was, unfortunately, all the more reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to be here. Oblivion was no place for the half-witted.

“You can’t just… sacrifice yourself,” Drevas said. “Don’t you have any family?”

Once again Yavni aborted a headshake. “Dinna rightly know,” he admitted.

“Well, if you get out of here, you can find out. I _know_ that I have no one. I’m more or less already dead.”

Yavni considered this. “Yer young,” he said.

“I guarantee I’ve seen more years than you have, Nord. I’m an elf, remember? I was probably already bored with life while you were still soiling your swaddling clothes.”

Another thoughtful silence. Then, with immense gravity, Yavni moved to him and placed the runestone in his hand. It felt heavy, cold. 

“Say ye want this,” Yavni said, his eyes intent.

Drevas looked up and met the man’s pale gray gaze for a moment. And for just a moment, for reasons beyond the obvious, Drevas felt a sudden gut-wrenching rush of fear: the strongest emotion he could remember feeling since he had lost his soul. For a flicker of an instant he saw, superimposed over Yavni’s lined, rugged features, the skull-like visage and burning azure eyes of Molag Bal.

“I… want this,” Drevas said, from a thousand miles away.

“Coont t’a hundred,” said Yavni.

And then he ran. Fast, so fast -- Yavni couldn’t possibly be as old as his face made him seem. He ran like a man who _wanted_ to live, who _devoured_ life in his own strange, cold, quiet way. Why, then, had he been a heartbeat away from locking himself in Oblivion?

“One… two… three…”

Why was Drevas doing the same? He faltered but kept counting. 

Some Daedric Princes were not so terrible. Azura, for example. In the old days his people had worshipped her, along with Mephala and Boethiah. Perhaps, despite the dragon head and the pet serpents, this Lady wasn’t so bad?

“Thirty-six… thirty-seven… thirty eight…”

Would a hundred counts really give Yavni enough time? Drevas didn’t have a clear sense of how far they’d traveled. Oblivion was strange that way. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he ended up locking them both in there, and they had to spend eternity on… whatever plane this was… together? The thought was so strangely comforting he almost thrust the runestone directly at the sigil. But no. A man with a soul did not belong here.

“Eighty-two… eighty-three… eighty-four…”

It was absurdly like Hide and Seek. _Ready or not, here I come_. He felt like a child again, could almost hear Renali’s voice, raspy even in childhood, as she—

Damn. _Damn_. Renali Othralas, the redhead from House Redoran who’d followed him to Vvardenfell. Renali would have been glad to see him, soul or no soul. She’d never cared that he was a necromancer, never cared when he rejected her advances. She was stupidly, ridiculously loyal, and he would never know if she’d heard news of his death, if she was doing all right, if she’d finally found a good husband.

Drevas had lost count now. But it didn’t really matter. Yavni was gone. Morrowind was gone. His entire life was gone. Perhaps when the portal closed, it would release some explosive blast of magic, and Drevas would die. It never hurt to hope.

Stone clutched in his trembling hand, Drevas approached the sigil. It grew dark, shivered, and then—

A burst of light. Blinding, searing.

Drevas had a feeling of falling endlessly—

\--and struck the ground forearms first. Painfully, but not hard enough to break bones. As though he’d merely stumbled. Disoriented, he looked up, and saw the tent from the last chamber of the Nord tomb. He was apparently sprawled face-first in the ruined circle of candles that had once stood next to the portal.

Yavni stood several feet away; he appeared to have been watching for the portal to close. His expression was difficult to read, but he put a fist over his heart, a sort of salute.

“Well, that’s twice I’ve escaped Oblivion now,” Drevas said, and then he fainted.

***

“This whole business with the bandits smells like a distraction,” said Captain Seyne, perusing the scroll Yavni had handed her. 

Drevas nodded gravely, still leaning on Yavni’s arm. He was fine, really – he’d only been out for a moment – but he wasn’t going to tell Yavni that. Yavni had shed his blood-soaked armor and was covered once again in furs, rough but comfortably warmed from the old man’s furnace-like body heat. If Drevas let on that he could stand on his own, Yavni would shrug him off, and Drevas would be freezing again.

“This General Serien,” Drevas noted, “had to have known the bandits wouldn’t be subtle.” 

Seyne frowned. “So if Jan hadn't sighted that huge ship in the distance, most of the garrison would be here on the opposite side of the island. My money says Serien is on that ship and clearing the way for a landing.”

“What’s our plan then?”

She frowned and handed the scroll back to Yavni. “I’m heading back to town,” she said. “Tillrani might be right about evacuating. Can I count on the two of you to rally anyone who’s scattered out here? I think a couple of youngsters ran off to Orkey’s Hollow, and I know Darj is investigating some of his hunters’ reports about undead at Skyshroud Barrow.”

“We’ll do a sweep of the forest before we head back,” said Drevas. He’d roamed all over Bleakrock Isle cutting wood with Yavni and had learned the landmarks well; it wasn’t a large island. 

Yavni grunted assent, then pried Drevas loose, watching him as if to see whether he’d fall over. Drevas was tempted to feign weakness, but they'd both need full use of their hands. Even when there weren't bandits and possible soldiers running about, the island had its share of wildlife, including aggressive white bears on the north side of the island.

Orkey's Hollow was to the far north; Skyshroud Barrow loomed on the northeastern shore. For reasons unknown to Drevas, once they were mounted Yavni steered the elk in a wide arc across the northwestern quarter of the island rather than angling directly northeast toward the Hollow. As if by design, they soon came in sight of a lone campfire, beside which sat a shivering rose-brown Argonian dressed in heavy armor. A radiant crest of small spikes surrounded her face, like a child’s drawing of the sun. 

Yavni reined in his mount. "Bura-Natoo,” he growled.

"Yavni?" The answering, surprised voice was dry and scratchy, but decidedly female. Sometimes the voices were the only way to tell, with lizard-people. “I erect the spine of greeting.”

"You two know each other?" said Drevas, leaning around Yavni for a better look at the creature.

"From the Fighter's Guild," rasped Bura-Natoo, still not rising from beside the fire. "It's been an age, though; I thought he had quit.”

“I did,” Yavni said.

Bura-Natoo tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “How strange, then, that the river brings you back to me today of all days."

As Drevas dismounted and approached, he realized the Argonian was not being rude by staying seated; she seemed currently incapable of standing. Her breathing was slightly labored, and she had a glassy look in her eyes. Drevas glanced at Yavni, who remained mounted and aloof. 

"What is the Fighter's Guild doing on this useless hunk of rock?" Drevas said, holding his hands toward the campfire and reveling in the slightly painful feeling of blood returning to his fingertips.

"I wanted to hunt bears," the Argonian said miserably. "I should have listened to the Guildmaster; she wants us all hunting Daedra. But my friends and I are used to choosing our own contracts. We rebelled, and look where it got us. They're all cocooned by spiders; the only reason I got away is that my kind are resistant to poison."

"You were attacked by the frostbite spiders?" Drevas frowned. He’d had a run-in with them on his very first day. "Never, never let them get close to you." Retrieving his staff from where it was slung across the elk’s saddle he turned back to Yavni, who was rummaging through a saddlebag, still mounted. At last the Nord drew out a corked bottle full of something bright green.

"For spider venom," he said, holding it out toward Drevas.

Drevas nodded and took the bottle from him. "I know how you feel about giant spiders, old man," he said. "Ride ahead of me to Orkey’s Hollow and scare those youngsters back home before they come to harm; I'll meet you there once I've done what I can for these poor fools." 

Yavni grunted and gave the reins a slap; the miserable elk lurched forward into a canter as though someone had set fire to its tail. Drevas turned to Bura-Natoo and offered her the bottle. She took a sip, winced and coughed, then handed the bottle back.

"Find my friends," she said. "There should be three of them.”

Before corking the bottle, Drevas took a hearty swig himself in preparation. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said with a grimace.

The spiders laired in a cluster of nearby caverns. Spotting three man-sized cocoons wasn't the difficult part. Getting past the spiders to cut the victims free without becoming poisoned and cocooned himself was another matter. But he’d learned the hard way how to fight these eight-legged bastards, when Yavni had inexplicably backed away and let Drevas handle them on his own the first day. Between Drevas’s natural agility, the flames from his staff, and the antidote already in his system, he managed to dispatch the giant arachnids efficiently without giving them a chance to inject their chilling paralytic poison. The caverns filled with smoke and the surprisingly delicious scent of toasted spider. 

Miraculously the Argonian’s Nord and Dunmer friends hadn't suffocated inside the cocoons; the spiders' venom had slowed their bodies’ processes almost to a standstill, reducing their need for air. Forcing the antidote down their gullets was difficult, but after he figured out a way to introduce it a few drops at a time, the victims’ color began to return and they regained control of their limbs. With their prognosis less dire, Drevas helped them back to the campfire.

“You are the sun on my scales,” Bura-Natoo rasped gratefully. “What prowess you must have in battle! If you ever want to join the Guild, I can put in a good word for you at the branch in Davon’s Watch.”

“The _Fighters’_ Guild?”

The only image he’d had of that guild during his former life was one of burly armored mercenaries lopping off bears’ heads for trophies, but his recent habit of snooping had given him an intriguing new data point. Right after he’d awakened in the soldiers’ quarters, he’d found a draft of a letter to “Sees-All-Colors,” their guildmaster. Darj the hunter had partially composed a polite refusal, saying that while he was honored by the invitation to join the Fighters’ Guild, he preferred to stay on Bleakrock Isle. The Guildmaster’s name had stuck in Drevas’s mind because it sounded Argonian, and the idea of an Argonian leading a guild of burly mercenaries had amused him endlessly.

All the scraps of information were now fitting together in an intriguing way. Bura-Natoo had called the Guildmaster “she,” meaning the leader was a _female_ Argonian leading a guild of burly mercenaries, and apparently ordering all of them to _hunt daedra_. Did this audacious lizard somehow know something of Molag Bal’s plans?

“I’m rather inclined to investigate the guild,” said Drevas. “If they’ll even take a spellcaster.”

Bura-Natoo made a face. “Sees-All-Colors has relaxed the definition of ‘fighter,’ on account of the task she’s taking on.” She shook her head a little; the spark in her eyes seemed to be returning somewhat. “The Guild has never been this aggressive about recruitment – or this organized. I’m not sure I like the changes, but my absolute failure here might be a sign. I’m not one to keep swimming against the current.”

“Do put in a word for me,” he said. “I’ll see if I can’t make my way to Davon’s Watch.” Somehow.

“What’s your name then, stranger?”

Oh, that. Right.

“Dren,” he said. A geographically wide-ranging lower-class surname that would make him beneath the notice of most powerful Dunmer. “Drevas Dren.”

“A good enough name, for a dark elf. But if I had the naming of you, I would call you Fears-No-Poison.”

Drevas gave the Argonian a half-smile as a notion occurred to him. “You must have a boat, yes? I don’t suppose you’d take me with you?”

“If you’re willing to leave right now,” she said. “It’s a small boat, but one more would do no harm. We must dance on the water, though; we’ve already stayed too long, and we’re due in Gnisis.”

“Haste would be wise,” Drevas agreed. “This island is about to become much more dangerous.”

Drevas stood for a moment, torn. Gnisis was in Vvardenfell. The huge volcanic island of Morrowind was so close that he swore he could almost smell ash on the wind. He was being offered a free ride home, and if an army was about to invade Bleakrock, this was the last place he wanted to be. On the other hand, he was still in the middle of assisting with the evacuation. 

If he helped Captain Rana, she would take him with her when they fled – where? Eastmarch, most likely, on the mainland of Skyrim. He could still make his way on foot if he had to, south across Eastmarch, southeast through the Rift, and then he would find himself once again in Morrowind. And he wouldn’t have to wonder if old Yavni had made it out all right.

“I’m afraid I have business to see through here,” he said finally.

Bura-Natoo nodded her spiked head crisply. “All right then, my friend. Stay moist. May we meet again in better times.”

***

When Drevas arrived at Orkey’s Hollow, on foot and miserably cold, he found two adolescent Nords bickering near the cave entrance -- and no sign of Yavni.

"If you didn't always haf to prove how _brave_ you are," the girl was saying caustically in a strong Eastern Skyrim accent, "this vould never haf happened!"

"I already told you I vas sorry!" From the look of it, the two were siblings, unless young Nords looked more alike than Drevas had assumed.

"Hold there!" Drevas said as he approached. "What are you doing out here! Have you seen Yavni?" They both turned to stare at him blankly, but at least they'd stopped bickering. Drevas sighed. "The Reachman," he clarified irritably.

"Ya, I saw the Reachman!" the young man blurted. "He just saved me from a bear!"

"A _bear_? Where is he now?"

The young man sobered. "He never came out of the cave. I'm Eiman, by the vay.”

“Tell me exactly what happened, Eiman,” said Drevas, his patience starting to fray at the edges.   
  
“One of those great snow-bears had me stuck on top of a big rock. The Reachman started fighting the bear, and he seemed to haf the upper hand, so I just -- I jumped down, and I ran. He _told_ me to run!" Eiman clarified defensively.

Drevas felt his temper rising. "He probably told you to go _home_, and yet here you two still are."

Eiman looked sheepish. "You should see that cave! It's full of treasures! And a ghost! A naked ghost! He’s very small, like a strange little-- baby-man."

“You saw a ghost?” Drevas felt one of his brows rise of its own accord.

"The Frozen Man," the sister put in. "He's vhy no one is supposed to go in there. The cave collapsed years ago, and it's haunted. Old Man Rory went in there last spring looking for treasure, and when the soldiers dragged him out, all his _bones_ were gone."

"And Eiman left Yavni alone in there. Splendid." Drevas inhaled, exhaled, clenched his fists. "Go home right now,” he said. “I swear by the Three, if I see either of you out here when we come back, I will _dismember_ you. Do not test me on that."

Without waiting to see if the two shocked adolescents would obey him, Drevas readied his staff and stalked into the cave. The collapse had opened portions of it to the sky, making visibility easy, and Drevas hadn't walked more than the length of a good-sized house before he found what had become of Yavni. Along one of the cavern walls, not far from the bloodied corpse of a white bear, was a sheet of solid ice in which Yavni was suspended with his axe raised and a permanently startled expression.

"Damn it all," said Drevas quietly. He walked up to the wall of ice, placing his gloved palm against it. “I should have left with that lizard.”

A voice echoed through the cave, taunting. Either a high-pitched man’s or a low-pitched woman’s; without context it was difficult to tell.

_This one's frozen. Is it someone you know?  
_ _Guess who I am, and I might let him go..._

Drevas turned around, seeing nothing but an empty cavern and a bear's corpse. "The Frozen Man, I presume?" he said, tamping down his rage. It was generally best to be polite to ghosts. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Drevas Gilvayn. So this is a game, then? I'm to guess who you are, and you’ll release my friend safe and sound?"

Drevas began to move carefully through the tunnels toward the collapsed area at the back, keeping his eyes sharp.

_This one talks back! So calm and so cool...  
_ _Does that make him brave, or make him a fool?_

"I'm not particularly afraid of ghosts," Drevas admitted amiably. "I’ve had far too much experience chatting with the dead. I'm certainly wary of _you_, though. You seem powerful, and also seem to enjoy hurting people. Why is that, exactly?"

Silence. Judging by the voice, and by Eiman's description of a "baby-man," Drevas suspected he was dealing with a Bosmer – not the sanest of races even under the best circumstances. The ice wall and the story about the missing bones suggested a powerful mage. But what would the ghost of a mage from Valenwood be doing in a cave on Bleakrock Isle?

"You're a spellcaster, aren't you?" said Drevas as he investigated the tunnels. "A Bosmer mage."

_That's a good start, but why was I here?  
_ _Guess wrong, and some of your bits disappear!_

"Were you with the Mages' Guild? Looking for some old book or artifact?"

_WRONG!_

Drevas felt a strange wrenching sensation in his left hand, and when he glanced down, he saw that the littlest finger of his glove hung slack. There was no bleeding; it was as though the finger had simply never been there.

“I see I shall have to be more conservative about my guesses,” he said faintly, flexing what was left of his hand.

_You’re going to play, just like we agreed.  
_ _I’ll try not to take things you actually need._

A quick survey of the rubble from the cave-in at the rear of the cavern made it clear to Drevas that it would take a team of strong, Yavni-sized men to clear away enough rock to identify a corpse under there. Rejecting that idea, Drevas veered off down a side passage that seemed to slant upward toward a light source. 

At the end of the passage was a spacious cavern partially open to the sky. The angle of the opening provided some shelter from the north winds, but even so half of its floor was dusted with snow. There Drevas found what Eiman had described as “treasures” – really just an assortment of middle-class knickknacks and furnishings, arranged in no particular order on the dry side and very unlikely to have been brought to the cave by mundane means. The wardrobe against the far wall was larger than the narrowest portion of the tunnel, and too pristine to have been dropped from above.

Conjured objects? That would reveal a great deal both about the mage’s level of power and the contents of his mind. Drevas studied the strange assortment, trying to determine a pattern. A huge warhorn sat next to a pile of books. A tall candelabrum, polished to a high sheen, flared to life as Drevas approached, shedding its golden light on a Daedric vase and an ordinary milk jug, both placed at its base in a way that somehow suggested they were a family. 

“Do you have children?” Drevas wondered aloud, and then immediately regretted it as he felt a familiar twinge, this time in the toe of his right boot. “That wasn’t a guess!” he objected. “I was asking!”

_A guess is a question; a question’s a guess!  
_ _Make more mistakes, and you’ll end up with less._

“I’m already missing more bits than you might suspect,” said Drevas dryly.

_Yes_, said the voice in a more sober, intimate tone than the singsong taunt it had been using. _Your soul is gone. _

“You can see that?” Drevas was genuinely surprised. “How clever of you.”

_Want mine? It’s black and gooey._

“I’m doing fine without,” said Drevas, “but thank you.” Carefully, encouraged by the spirit’s more earnest demeanor, Drevas touched the candelabra with gloved fingertips.

A ghost appeared. An Altmer woman, motionless, standing and staring into the middle distance. She wore robes that looked tidy and somehow official, with a formal high neck.

_That’s Arawe. Isn’t she lovely? Always so shiny._

The apparition faded from view, and Drevas withdrew his hand. On impulse, he knelt to touch the Daedric vase.

A leather-armored Khajiit appeared now, as faint and lifeless as the echo of the Altmer. His leathers were smart and well-maintained, giving him a more formal appearance than the few Khajiit traders Drevas had seen.

_Tarik of the Silver Claw! Always joking, but lonely on the inside._

Drevas touched the milk jug, and a Bosmer male appeared, dressed in the exact same leathers as the Khajiit. A Khajiit and a Bosmer in the same uniform could only mean one thing, but Drevas was hesitant to guess aloud. He only had so many more optional body parts.

_That’s Oriell. We’re brothers! I’m better looking._

“Show me,” said Drevas.

The Frozen Man appeared next to his brother, stark naked. Whatever else he might be, he wasn’t shy. Drevas had been hoping to compare his robe to the Altmer’s, but he would have to make do with the evidence presented. 

The Bosmer’s frame was exceptionally small, even smaller than most of his tree-crawling kind. He had a vulnerable look – Drevas could see why _baby-man_ had come to Eiman’s mind. A scrawny fellow, bookish perhaps. The Altmer had been in robes, so two mages? Or was she a priestess? Two companions in leather. No heavy armor so far. 

“You are handsome indeed,” said Drevas. “Was it just the four of you?”

The Frozen Man frowned. _Only partly wrong. _Drevas could see his lips move when he spoke this time, but the voice still seemed to wander through the cavern rather than emanating from the man himself. _So I’ll only take part of your liver._

Drevas felt an odd twinge in the right side of his belly. “What was my mistake, if I may ask?” he said through gritted teeth.

_You said WAS. The four of us are all still here. Can’t you see? When Oriell’s head wouldn’t stop leaking, I turned him into a milk jug. It took some time, but I found the others and fixed them, too. They’re happier now._

Drevas touched the milk jug again, studying it. An ordinary object, familiar and comforting. Perhaps a Valenwood design.

“No leaks now,” Drevas said. “Looks very solid. Well done.”

_Can you guess who I am now?_

“You’re a Bosmer mage…” said Drevas, stalling.

_You said that already. Don’t make me take your kidney!_

“You were part of an Aldmeri Dominion scouting party,” Drevas said hastily. “You, Arawe, Tarak, and your brother Oriell. You were very powerful, so I think the others feared you a little. You wanted to be better friends with them. You camped in this cave together, and you were glad to be spending time with them. But then the cavern collapsed.”

_The stones look pretty until they turn on you. Then it’s all blood and screaming and shattered bones and gasping in the dark._

“You tried to save your brother and your friends, but you couldn’t. Eventually you suffocated or died of thirst. Your comfort was – and is – knowing that you’re all still together.”

_How do you know that? How do you know?_ The spirit’s voice, and expression, was a strange mix of fear and profound relief.

“The same way you knew about my soul. We understand each other, don’t we?” 

The spirit just stared at him, as motionless as Yavni trapped in the ice. 

“When other people come to the cave, you turn them into friends, too. That war horn, the wardrobe… they’re new friends you’ve made.”

_The nice ones get to stay. I break the greedy ones._

“The ones who try to take your friends away.”

_The bear was my friend. She was a pretty lady once_. _Now she’s dead._

“I’m sorry that Yavni killed your friend. But bears don’t play very nice, do they.”

_I should have made her an apple barrel. What do you want me to turn you into? Usually I choose, but I like you better than the others. You get to decide._

“Are you going to let Yavni go?” asked Drevas mildly, absently fidgeting with the empty finger of his glove. “The one you froze? I won your game, and those were the rules.”

_I already let him go. He’s fine and free! But you have to stay._

“You would separate me from my best friend? That seems unkind, after I’ve been such a good sport and treated you so nicely.”

The spirit wrung his hands fretfully. _Maybe I should just keep you both. Make you into a pair of bookends._

“You have so many friends already, though. And all I have is Yavni.”

The spirit smiled, his eyes as black as a starless night. _You’ll still have each other_. _You’ll be happier. Now make up your mind what you want to be, or I’ll decide for you. I have so many ideas!_

Drevas stroked his chin for a moment with his four-fingered left hand. “If I have to be _something _new… then… can you make us look like this?” He rummaged into his bag, edging closer to the spirit as he did so. “I’ve always thought these were so pretty. Where did I put it?”

_Let me see. I can make anything. Did you see the wardrobe? It used to be a soldier._

“Ah, here it is,” said Drevas, pulling out the stolen soul gem. “_Akhana dorvu temni ghorash…_”

The Frozen Man may have been a mage in life, but he was caught so far off guard that he didn’t recognize the object until it was too late. His eyes had just enough time to widen in alarm before a spiraling thread of violet light connected him to the gem, peeling away his form and drawing his essence into the depths of the crystal. The spirit gave one last despairing cry -- and then vanished. The gem in Drevas’s hand turned a dull, sooty black.

Drevas examined the gem with interest. A soul of that caliber could be used craft a tremendously powerful enchantment and would sell for a fortune on the mainland’s black market -- but on the other hand, if anyone in Tamriel found a black soul gem in his bag he’d likely end up back in prison for eternity. Somewhat regretfully, he dropped the black gem into the milk jug and turned to make his way out of the cave.

Eiman and his sister had gone home apparently; when Drevas emerged, Yavni stood there alone and unharmed.

“What’s wi’ yer hand?” the old man growled, as though they’d only parted ways briefly to answer the call of nature in the woods.

“You owe me a finger,” Drevas said. “And a toe, and part of my liver. But the Frozen Man won’t be bothering anyone else. Probably best to leave it at that.”

***

The sky had gone silver again, and the wind had picked up, whistling and carrying stinging flurries. Yavni’s elk braved the miserable weather with its head held low, carrying its two passengers with dreary determination.

Halfway to Skyshroud they found another Frostedge camp – much smaller, but with a hunter taken hostage in hopes of trading him to the village for food. Within minutes the snow was stained red and the hostage fleeing southward. Drevas and Yavni pressed onward.

The architectural skeleton of Skyshroud Barrow was visible from some distance away, even through the rolling terrain and thick evergreen trees. Massive stone archways, each like a set of paired rib bones with vertebrae intact, marked the summit of the ancient dragon shrine and burial complex. 

As they approached convoluted arrangement of stairs, landings, and terraces that constituted the outer grounds, a Nord came limping toward them, one arm held protectively close to his body. As he neared, Drevas recognized the close-shorn golden hair and neatly-bound beard of Darj, Bleakrock Village's chief hunter.

"You there!" Darj called out. "Are either of you squeamish about undead?"

"No," Drevas answered. "That's why we're here, in fact. I'm Drevas, this is Yavni, and you're Darj. So I take it the rumors about this place are true?"

"I’m afraid so," said Darj. "This place used to be haunted by nothing worse than the occasional frostbite spider; now there are walking skeletons everywhere. But it's no use trying to destroy them; they just rise again moments later. Whatever is raising them, it's in the shrine itself. You can just feel the evil radiating from inside. But the door is locked."

"What is the purpose of this place?" said Drevas. "There's an enormous tomb complex right next to the village, so I take it Bleakrock's people don't bury their dead here."

Darj shook his head. "This place is ancient. Abandoned long before the garrison was built here. Dragon cultists built barrows like this all over mainland Skyrim as well, centuries ago. Each shrine had a priest who knew all its secrets, including the way of opening the door."

"So there's a ritual involved," said Drevas. 

"Aye. I brought an offering to the spirit of Skyshroud's high priest, to see if he would speak to me about it, but the damned bone-men broke my arm before I could even get to his altar. Now I can't draw my bow. Perhaps the two of you will have better luck?" With his good hand, Darj offered Drevas what appeared to be a pouch of incense.

Drevas took the bag and inclined his head. Apparently today was going to be a day of conversations with ghosts.

"You may rely on us," he said. "I suggest you head back to town; I believe Sergeant Seyne may be trying to organize an evacuation, and she might need your help."

"An evacuation? Because of the undead?"

"You'd best speak to the Sergeant about the reasons," said Drevas. "But I'd hurry back if I were you. We'll be along once we've sorted this out."

Darj had not been exaggerating about the condition of the temple grounds; the stone bridges and staircases and terraces were a veritable village of fleshless soldiers. Some wielded blades; others loosed arrows with improbable precision, requiring Yavni to close the distance quickly and scatter their bones to stop them from turning Drevas into a pincushion. As the two men hacked and burned their way toward the high priest’s altar at the west side of the complex, Drevas mulled over how to approach an inevitable confession.

“What are your thoughts on necromancers?” he said lightly, as Yavni hacked a prone skeleton’s ribcage into pieces.

Yavni grunted in astonishment. “Thoughts?”

“Yes, you know. Opinions… feelings… thoughts.”

“I try no tae think of them.”

“Well, you may not be able to avoid that,” said Drevas mildly.

Yavni jerked his head in the direction of the locked temple. “Necromancer in there?”

“Well, yes, clearly,” said Drevas. “But also a necromancer out here. A sane and reasonable necromancer who is only trying to help.”

Yavni gave his most recent undead victim a few more chops. Not that it mattered; Drevas knew the damned thing would just reassemble and attack them again in a matter of minutes. When Yavni had satisfied his thirst for destruction, he straightened and narrowed his eyes at Drevas.

“Yer a _gravesinger_?” he said, his Reach accent somehow intensifying in his astonishment. “Whit_ wey?_”

Drevas shrugged. “Why do you use frost magic? It comes naturally to you, you’re good at it, it kills the things you want killed.”

Yavni considered, then grunted. “Ye trust me no tae turn ye in,” he said. It wasn’t a question; in fact his tone was laced with contempt. _What sort of naïve fool are you?_ his eyes seemed to say.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Drevas. “More accurately, based upon my observations over the last week, I trust you to trust the law even less than you trust a necromancer.”

Yavni narrowed his eyes even further.

“I cannot help but notice that you are far less judgmental of my necromancy than you are of my trust in you. Is this because you grew up in the Reach, where people worship daedra and eat the hearts of infants?”

“Aye,” he said flatly. Drevas felt a frisson of unease; he had expected Yavni to push back on the infant-eating.

“Have you dined on many infants yourself?”

“Nae tha' I recall.”

Again, Drevas had been expecting a stronger reaction. He blinked and cleared his throat. “Suffice it to say,” he went on, “you are a man with dark secrets. And so I thought I could trust you with my own. Our current task would be much easier if I were allowed to use my gifts. This place is littered with bones; there is no reason we need to be quite so outnumbered.”

“Do whit ye want,” said Yavni. “But do it afore this one gets up again.”

"Right." Drevas turned to the pile of bones that Yavni had just disassembled, held out his hand, and--

\--stared blankly.

In Coldharbour, he could raise the dead with little more than a thought. But that wasn't _always_ how it had worked, was it? Dimly he seemed to remember being astonished at first by the ease of necromantic spellcasting in Coldharbour. It made sense; Molag Bal was himself the father of necromancy, so of course his realm would be seething with necromantic energies.

Over time, Drevas had apparently forgotten that necromancy had ever required effort. And since arriving here on Bleakrock, he'd constantly been under the eyes of the law. He hadn't even attempted any of his old spells for fear of becoming a prisoner again. Now, for the first time, it occurred to him that his memory of how necromancy worked on this plane was… vague at best.

"Plan B," said Drevas. "You're going to continue hitting everything with your axe, and I will continue setting fire to things with my staff. Perhaps I am not a necromancer after all," he added dryly. "Perhaps I was only testing your loyalty."

Yavni grunted and continued hacking his way toward the altar.

"You _are_ loyal, aren't you?" Drevas said to Yavni’s back, pitching in with a few blasts of arcane fire. "I should hope so. You _do_ owe me your life, twice over."

"Didna ask it."

Drevas blinked. "You'd prefer to have been stranded in Oblivion or frozen in a wall of ice for eternity?"

With his latest foe reduced to a pile of bones, Yavni stopped and turned, a cold rage simmering in his gaze. This was the first time Drevas had seen that particular expression directed at _him_, and it was not a pleasant experience.

"Let's get a thing straight," Yavni said, his voice the deep growl of a distant avalanche. "I'm here. That means yer mair use than ye are trouble. The minute that changes, ye’ll nae be seein' me again. Talkin' of 'loyalty' and life-debts and that shite -- tha's trouble. Quit it or go alone."

With that, he turned and continued toward the altar. Drevas followed mutely, surprised by how unsettling he found Yavni’s reaction. 

Another pair of skeletal swordsmen stood in their way, but they were swiftly dispatched without further conversation. Drevas approached the altar and placed the incense in the shallow bowl atop the carved stone pedestal, his mind still turning. 

He supposed he’d somehow expected Yavni to take Etienne’s place – which wasn’t fair at all. Yavni hadn’t asked to be saved; hadn’t asked for company, even. He seemed like a man accustomed to traveling alone. When looked at it from that point of view, Yavni had been remarkably tolerant of him. With a spark from his staff, Drevas set the incense alight. Spicy smoke rose from the bowl, making his eyes water.

“MAGGOT!" came a reverberating voice as the translucent image of a masked Nord appeared. Drevas stepped back, startled. The priest appeared to be dressed in an ornate robe and stole, and his expression was one of indignant rage. "You dare summon me?”

"A pleasure to meet you," said Drevas smoothly.

"Who in Oblivion are ye talkin' tae?" growled Yavni. 

Drevas didn't even glance at him. If Yavni wanted to travel alone, Drevas would be more than happy to oblige. "I'm Drevas Gilvayn of House Indoril," he said to the priest.

"Your name is meaningless, worm! Do you have any idea of the power I once commanded?" 

"Vast I’m sure,” said Drevas. “If only you _now_ had the power to eliminate the evil desecrating your shrine, then the services of a worm such as myself would not be needed."

The spirit-priest clenched his transparent fists. "You know of the filth that attempts to raise my remains? This sacrilege must not come to pass! You shall become the instrument of my will, you pathetic insect!"

"Splendid," said Drevas. "Just let this insect know how to get _in_to the shrine, and I shall protect your remains with all of my feeble strength."

"You have to ask? A half-witted child should know the ritual!"

"Alas, I am a stranger to these lands, but I am currently the only half-wit available to help you."

"Fine! Bring the whale, eagle, and snake runestones from the lesser altars to the door and place them on their proper pedestals. If you cannot tell which is which, just let my remains be desecrated, for if the world has devolved to such a state then it deserves to have every manner of evil unleashed upon it."

Drevas bowed deeply in the priest’s direction, then turned and headed off.

The three runestone altars were, of course, located at the extreme northern, western, and southern ends of the complex, as far as possible from the door they were designed to unlock. And of course the entire grounds were still crawling with animated skeletons, and there was no way to permanently clear a path, since any pile of bones Drevas turned his back on for more than the length of a good piss would simply get back up again.

Yavni continued to silently assist, but as he had apparently been unable to overhear the conversation with the high priest about the plan, he was forced to trail behind Drevas instead of taking point. Drevas had splendid plans about proving Yavni’s help superfluous, but apparently each of the runestones had been assigned its own personal guardian. These particular skeletal remains were animated by such unswerving purpose that even with Yavni’s help, Drevaas found wearing them down an exhausting and dangerous task.

On the bright side, by necessity, he remembered a basic technique he’d employed in life as a necromancer. All beings, even the undead, were possessed of a sort of “life force,” and it was a relatively simple matter to steal away some of it and give it to a more deserving recipient. Minor wounds were knitted, exhausted energy reserves were refilled, and best of all, it wasn’t against the law. 

Drevas felt certain the Mages' Guild would have _liked_ to forbid this sort of healing as they had more obvious aspects of necromancy, but the trouble was, in mid-battle it was often impossible to tell how exactly a foe was being wounded and how allies were being mended, so it simply wasn't practical to enforce. In effect that meant that a person could often practice necromancy in broad daylight, so long as one didn't do something so obvious as visibly raise a corpse. It all came from the same source of power -- the non-consensual manipulation of the forces of life and death -- but as long as the Guild could plausibly pretend not to notice, they didn't raise a fuss. Hypocrites, all of them, and not even clever ones.

Once the guardians had been confronted and defeated, Drevas brought the three runestones to the great arched stone doorway of the barrow's main shrine. The door was intricately carved with images of dragons, and the shifting shadows of denuded tree branches gave the eerie impression that the dragons were _breathing_.

Each of the pedestals that surrounded the door was clearly marked with an image of the animal it honored... but the runestones were not. Drevas held them in his hands, staring in dismay and annoyance. In all the chaos of battle he hadn't taken the time to remember which stone he'd taken from which altar, because he'd assumed the symbols etched upon the stones would match the symbols on their intended pedestals. But instead, the pedestals were carved to match the altars themselves, not the stones.

"I shudder to think what happens if I put one of the stones on the wrong pedestal," Drevas said wearily. "I've a thirty-three percent chance of getting it right, and then if I manage that, my chance improves to fifty-fifty--"

Yavni snatched one of the runestones from him. "Snake," he said, and placed it on the pedestal. A soft column of blue-white light briefly appeared, then faded.

"How did you--"

"Nord runes," he said, snatching another from Drevas. "Whale." Again he placed the stone on the correct pedestal.

Before Yavni could take it, Drevas hurriedly placed what had to be the eagle runestone, by process of elimination. He heard a deep grinding sound from the main door, as of a huge stone wheel turning somewhere beneath it. When he pressed on the door, it gave and opened.

It was dark inside, but not as dark as Drevas had expected for a place with no lit torches. There was a soft cool light coming from somewhere farther ahead, and it bled into the entryway, illuminating walls lined with small urns and upright tombs and -- strangely -- a few bookshelves, their contents so decayed that the lightest of touches would surely have caused them to collapse into dust. So much lost knowledge!

Further in was a large chamber with a high vaulted ceiling lost in shadows; on the west side, daylight streamed in where a small waterfall rushed down, forming a lovely little rivulet that abruptly disappeared back beneath the earth, flowing away somewhere under their feet. Perhaps more relevant was the large dais at the very back of the chamber, where a robed necromancer was attempting a complex ritual on a carefully-wrapped corpse.

_Destroy him_, came the dragon priest's voice in Drevas's mind. _And burn my remains. Now that they have been defiled and disinterred it is the only way to sanctify them._

Drevas looked to Yavni, to the necromancer, and then back to Yavni. "After you," he said to the old man with a gallant gesture.

Yavni grunted and drew his axe from his belt.

Drevas had half been hoping for a prolonged fight in which he might observe the necromancer’s combat strategies and trigger some old recollections, but since the man had not been expecting anyone to enter the barrow behind him, he had allowed himself to become utterly absorbed in whatever ritual he was performing on the dragon priest’s body. Startled and thrown off-balance, he scarcely had time to summon a skeletal servant before Yavni cut them both down like trees.

“That was anticlimactic,” Drevas observed. With a sweep of his inferno staff, he lit the dragon-priest’s remains on fire to sanctify them. He burned the necromancer’s corpse as well for good measure; the Three only knew what spells he might have cast on himself in life in hopes of eventual self-resurrection. “Search the chamber and see if he brought anything of value with him.”

Yavni turned, axe still dripping, and gave Drevas a cold look.

“Alternately,” Drevas said, “I could search the chamber, and you could do… whatever it is you enjoy doing in abandoned dragon cultist shrines.” He turned away.

Carefully prodding the stone ahead of him with the inert end of his staff in case the spray from the waterfall had made it too slick to step on, Drevas began to explore the shadowed edges of the softly-lit chamber. In a corner not far from where they’d entered, he found what appeared to be the necromancer’s belongings, and rifled through them with interest. Yavni, meanwhile, began to clean his axe blade. His manner suggested that he was occupying himself until Drevas was finished with his search – that suggested that Yavni still considered them to be traveling as a pair. Drevas couldn’t figure the old Nord out for the life of him.

Drevas found and unrolled a letter from inside the dead man’s malodorous leather bag. He thought he spotted the word _necromancy_ in the dim light, and so he moved to the place where the winter sunlight streamed through the breach in the rock and held up the paper to take a closer look.

“Aha,” he said. “Tillrani was right. This man is a Breton: Severin Charnis. He was sent to Pact lands with General Serien of the Daggerfall Covenant.”  
  
Yavni grunted. His sharp gaze implied interest, so Drevas continued, rolling up the letter carefully to keep as evidence.

“Charnis was a member of something called the ‘Lion Guard’ but was ejected when his use of necromancy was discovered. Apparently, this General Serien is less squeamish and was making use of him in the Covenant’s war against us. We should let Captain Rana know. It seems Tillrani wasn’t paranoid after all.”

***

“Vivec save us,” Captain Rana said when she saw the letter, her fine dark face etched with dismay. “I’ve sent the garrison to their deaths. Someone needs to light the signal fire to warn the mainland while Tillrani and I work out how to evacuate the civilians without our caravel.”

“Please allow me to attend to the signal,” Drevas said with a deep bow. “I am excellent at lighting things.”

“I should warn you,” said the captain, “that the signal tower has already been taken. And now we know by whom. They aren’t very many, up there; I’ve no doubt you and that Reachman could carve and burn your way through. Once the signal is lit, come back and find Tillrani. She’ll hold the way open for you and lead you to where I’ll be taking the civilians.”

“Where might that be? In case I don’t find Tillrani.”

“Last Rest,” Rana said. “The tomb just south of the village. I know it sounds ominous, but there’s a way through it to a beach where some smugglers think I don’t know they operate. It’s our best chance at a way off this island.”

Drevas gave Rana a smart salute. “You may rely on us, Captain.”

The signal tower was on a hill south of the village; as Drevas rode behind Yavni down the southern path he could see Last Rest to their right. The tomb was nearly as old as the dragon priests’ barrow, and it was rumored that the dead in the deeper chambers did not rest easy, but the villagers showed little fear of the place, maintaining the grounds just outside with tedious regularity.

As Rana had indicated, scarcely a half dozen of the Covenant soldiers had been dispatched to hold the tower, and they gave Yavni and Drevas little trouble. The interior of the tower was hung with brave, colorful banners depicting great ships and fearsome dragons, but they did nothing to soften the effect of the wind’s high keening as it penetrated the tower’s sober gray stones. The climb up the spiraling stair seemed endless, and Drevas felt a strange sense of foreboding as he set the signal fire ablaze with his staff.

“Something’s wrong,” he said to Yavni as they began to descend the way they’d come. “Do you feel it?”

Yavni grunted noncommittally.

They were only halfway back to the village when Drevas smelled smoke. With a low growl, Yavni goaded the elk into a a reluctant lope. Soon shouts could be heard from the north, and the flickering of distant fire was clearly visible in the gathering dusk.

“Damn it!” said Drevas. “The Covenant must have stormed the village while we were in the tower. Wait, why are you stopping?”

Before Drevas even finished the question, Yavni had dismounted. The old man headed swiftly on foot toward the gate leading into the village. Drevas saw what Yavni had spotted: Tillrani Snow-Bourne, seated and leaning back against the wall. Her face was nearly as gray as the stone, and the sloping ground beside her was stained where her blood had run down in spidery rivulets. She appeared to be holding in her own guts with both hands and sheer force of will.

“Snow-Bourne,” Drevas said softly as he dismounted and approached. A gust of smoke blew toward them from the village, and Drevas’s eyes watered.

Tillrani grunted. “The Covenant--”

“Don’t try to talk,” said Drevas. “It’s clear what happened. Was Rana able to evacuate any of the villagers?”

Tillrani gave a quick, jerky nod. “To the tomb. All but… Aera and her girl. Aera… sent me to find her, but… aaach!”

“I’ll look for Trynhild,” said Drevas.

Yavni growled behind him. Drevas rounded on him.

“Go, if you like!” he snapped, but his impact was spoiled by a sudden fit of coughing.

“The village is burning,” Yavni said, as though Drevas weren’t nearly choking on the evidence. 

“I’m aware,” Drevas rasped, and cleared his throat. “But Aera Earth-Turner gave me shelter, and offered it to you as well, even if you were too proud to take it. And poor Trynhild is little more than a girl. I won’t leave them to die before I at least make an _effort_, for fuck’s sake_._ Run along to the tomb if it suits you. I’m heading in.”

Tillrani groped feebly at Drevas’s boot. Her eyes were starting to lose focus. “Aera… might still be… in my house.”

“I’ll go there directly,” said Drevas. “May the—er—” It occurred to Drevas suddenly that he had no idea what one said to a dying Nord. They would have no use for the Three’s blessings.

Yavni approached, looming. Tillrani lifted her head, too weak to fear him as his shadow fell over her like death itself.

“Sovngarde calls,” Yavni said in a voice like distant thunder.

Tillrani let out one last ragged exhale, and then her arms fell away from her ruined midsection, landing palm up in the bloodied snow. Her eyes went as dead as stones.

Drevas turned away from the sight, heading directly across the center of the village toward Tillrani’s house. If Aera Earth-Turner was in there, she was certainly trapped; the place had only one door, and it was engulfed in flames. Drevas glanced back dubiously toward the town well and saw, to his surprise, that Yavni was approaching behind him.

“Good,” he said. “I could use your help. We each need to each grab a bucket from the—”

Before he could finish, Yavni’s eyes flared blue and the doorway was sheeted over with ice, which melted instantly and dampened the flames with a tremendous smoky hiss. Then the old Nord applied his shoulder to the door, battering it down.

“Well then,” said Drevas mildly as he entered behind Yavni. “I doubt it was even locked, you know. They never—” Another coughing fit interrupted him.

Aera was indeed trapped inside, woozy from smoke. Once they helped her through the still-steaming doorway and got some fresher air in her lungs, she revived just enough to stand on her own feet… and then panic.

“Trynhild!” she cried. “Please, Drevas, you must find her.”

“Is she at your home?”

“Our place was the first they set fire to. She ran… toward the water, I think. The dock. I lost sight of her.”

“We’ll find her,” Drevas said firmly. “A warrior and mage are well-equipped to handle a few Covenant looters. But you must run to Last Rest _immediately_. Littrek and Denskar are already there, and if I let you risk yourself, they will never forgive me.”

“I’ll go,” she said. “Find Trynhild.”

The girl was underneath the dock, not just _near_ the water but sitting half _in _it, hugging herself and shivering, bluish-pale under her freckles.

“What are you doing, child?” said Drevas. “You would rather catch your death from cold than flame?”

“My skirt caught fire,” she said. “My leg – it feels better now, but – I’m afraid, I don’t know where to go.”

“Captain Rana is gathering everyone at Last Rest. The rest of your family is already there.”

“Mother made it? I thought—” Her eyes filled with tears.

“She nearly didn’t. She was trapped inside Tillrani’s house, but I got her out. Now it’s your turn to get rescued. But you need to get out of that water.”

Trynhild nodded and started to rise slowly to her feet, wobbly and shaking.

Drevas turned to Yavni. “Can you—”

Yavni grunted and tossed the redhead over his shoulder in one swift heave, making her shriek.

“To the tomb,” said Drevas.

Drevas led them on a circuitous path around the border of the village, keeping out of sight of the Covenant looters. By the time they arrived at the tomb, Trynhild was pounding an impervious Yavni’s back and telling him that she was fine, damn him. He ignored her utterly until they were within a stone’s throw of Captain Rana, whereupon he dumped her in the snow in much the same way he usually tossed wood onto the cart. 

Tryn scrambled to her feet and glared at him, red-faced and rubbing the elbow she’d landed on. No sooner had she spat out a “Don’t expect me to thank you!” than Aera rushed over, boots kicking up sprays of snow, and crushed her daughter in an embrace. Drevas noticed the dull copper shade of the braid wrapped around the older woman’s head; it must have been as fiery as Tryn’s when she was younger.

“Trynhild!” she sobbed. “You’re alive!”

“I’m _fine_, Mother, stop it. I’ve half a mind to grab a sword and march right back there and—”

“Don’t you _dare_,” Aera said, voice trembling with fear and rage.

Tryn pulled back, eyes filling with tears. “Mother, the Covenant—they killed Tillrani. I saw it. One of them just… _gutted _her, so much blood – they can’t get away with it. I have to avenge her!”

Aera shook Tryn once, hard. “Stop that,” she said sharply. “You know I loved her like a sister. I would have given my life in her place, but--”

“Don’t say that!”

“And yet you want to go chasing her to Sovngarde yourself? Now you see how I feel! Just shut your mouth, girl, and listen to Captain Rana’s plan! She’s going to get us out of here, to the mainland.”

“I’m joining the Pact army as _soon_ as we get there.”

“You are doing no such thing!”

Seeing that they’d both utterly forgotten his role in enabling their further bickering, Drevas gave Yavni an eloquent shrug and headed toward the tomb.

“There you are,” said Captain Rana, intercepting him. “Thank the Three. I need you and your friend—”

“His name is Yavni.”

“--To take the lead with me inside Last Rest. It’s one of those fiendishly complex ancient Nord crypts, full of levers and switches and traps and hidden doors -- it will take two or three of us to open the safest path for the others, and even that route will be full of undead. We have to clear the way, and then Darj and Seyne will be the rear guard.”

“Right behind you,” said Drevas. “Just tell us what you need.”

Rana eyed Yavni warily. “Does he speak?”

“Not unless he absolutely has to,” said Drevas. “But he’s got all his wits if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Yavni grunted.

Rana jerked her head toward the tomb entrance, then set off, with Drevas and Yavni close behind.

“The first thing I need the two of you to do,” she said, “is to find and activate two switches just inside the entrance at the same time I activate mine. That will shut off the first set of traps.”  
  
“The _first_ set? Are we entirely sure this is a safe route to be leading a gaggle of frightened civilians?”

“It’s the only route,” Rana said grimly.

It was precisely as the captain had described: a set of wicked spike traps that could only be disabled via careful cooperation. Once the traps were neutralized, the three split up. Drevas’s directive was to find and unlock a door whose stones boasted intricate flower symbols; Yavni was to disable yet another trap on the other side of it, via another route. 

Without Rana looking over his shoulder, Drevas was free to experiment with necromancy to defend himself from the handful of undead who decided to get in his way. More distracting than a few restless old bones, however, was the surprising beauty of the grand central chamber he crossed on the way: snow-covered and open to the sky, with evenly spaced columns as thick as ancient oak trees. At one side stood a statue of a robed Nord blowing a massive warhorn, a bird of prey perched on his shoulder. 

Old memories sparked at the sight of this neglected artistry; a nearly-forgotten youth spent exploring ruins in pursuit of relics he could use in his dreamed rise to power. While his goals had been pragmatic, he’d been forever stumbling on abandoned masterpieces of art and architecture, wonders that for centuries had been seen only by giant spiders and the restless dead. It suddenly occurred to Drevas that if he survived this little adventure, he wanted to get back to that life: exploring, learning, making something of himself -- even less constrained now by any ties to family and respectability.

Past the central chamber was a smaller, dimmer chamber with narrow bridge high up one side, connecting two passages on a level above him. He could see Rana up there, engaged in fighting two skeletons at once. He tried not to be distracted by the startling grace of her technique – definitely Redoran-trained – and looked around for the door he was meant to unlock.

“Wait on the other side of that door for the refugees!” Rana called as he found it, somehow sparing enough attention to spot him down below even as she crushed a skeleton’s ribs with her mace. “The Reachman is clearing the way for them now!”

“He’s called Yavni,” Drevas said half-heartedly as he passed through the door.

Sure enough, after a few moments Drevas heard the hurried footsteps of the twenty or so villagers who had survived the attack. The whole Earth-Turner family, the bickering siblings he’d found at the Frozen Man’s cave, and several others he recognized but whose names escaped him. Blond-bearded Darj the Hunter and pallid Sergeant Seyne brought up the rear.

“Almost there,” Seyne assured the villagers. She pushed dirt-colored hair from her eyes shot a strained glance toward Drevas. “Where’s Rana?” Drevas could see, in Seyne’s look, her many years of tortured devotion.

“She should be along any moment,” Drevas said with forced optimism. “And Yavni?”

Seyne blinked. “Who?”

“Yavni! Yavni Twice-Born! The elder Nord who has been cutting wood on your island for months now! Years, possibly, for all I know! The one who went into an Oblivion portal to close it from the other side, with no regard for his own safety! The one you call the Reachman, the one who sleeps by himself in the snow, with only a damned elk for company, the one who has saved your lives several times over by now!”

Seyne blinked again. “Right,” she said crisply. “Well, once he’d disarmed the fire trap for us, he fucked back off the way he’d come.”

“The way he’d come?” Drevas echoed flatly. 

“Yes.”

“You don’t mean… he didn’t go back toward the village?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

Drevas raked a hand back through his hair. “Did no one try to _stop_ him? What in Oblivion could he have had in mind?”

“How was I supposed to know? He doesn’t talk to anyone.”

Drevas felt hollow and strange. He was acutely, deeply aware that something _should_ be happening inside him… but wasn’t. He could feel the precise outlines of the missing feeling, but within those lines was nothing but a calm and hideous nothingness.

“Captain!” Seyne called suddenly, her salmon-red eyes brightening. Drevas turned to see the bloodied Dunmer woman hurrying toward them, jet-black hair still in its tight, merciless knot.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Rana asked wearily.

Seyne saluted. “Yes, Captain.”

“Then let us be off.”

Drevas opened his mouth, then let it fall shut again. No one cared about Yavni. Even he didn’t care, to be honest. Certainly not enough to run back into a burning village he’d only just managed to escape. He moved along placidly with the herd of refugees, carrying a new empty space like a fallow field someone had forgotten to sow.

The cove was just on the other side of the next door. Waiting at the shore was a strange little craft with a thorny prow and sails folded up like a lady’s fan. An unfamiliar spiky-headed Argonian stood on deck—male, to judge by the breadth of his shoulders—with eyes so small and gray as to be almost indistinguishable from his other scales.

“Who is that?” Drevas asked Rana in a low voice.

“A hero of the Pact, he says,” Rana answered just as quietly. “I’m not entirely certain I believe him, but I was not in a position to negotiate with him regarding the price of his services. It took all my powers of persuasion just to convince him to take us on.”

“Their kind do know water, I suppose,” said Drevas, eyeing their rescuer dubiously. “He’ll be taking us where exactly? Eastmarch?”

Rana shook her head. “Far too likely we’ll be intercepted by Covenant forces if we sail directly southwest to the mainland. I thought we’d head the opposite direction. Take the long way around Vvardenfell, dock at Dhalmora and then travel overland to Davon’s Watch to join up with Pact forces there.”

Davon’s Watch. By the Three, could he be this lucky? “An inconvenient route,” he said, “but possibly wise.”

“Will we be parting ways at Dhalmora?” said Rana. “Or can I count on your assistance after we arrive?”

Drevas hesitated. They were leaving Skyrim – a place just one step less alien and cold than Coldharbour itself – and heading _home_. Once Drevas was back in his homeland he would have options: join the Fighter’s Guild in Davon’s Watch, look up his old friend Renali in Vvardenfell, or return to his old habit of wandering and ruin-diving. None of these options involved continuing to fight a war against the Covenant. But he wasn’t safely on the boat yet, so he’d lie to Rana, of course.

“I am at your service, Captain,” he said with a gracious bow.

“Where is Yavni?” she asked.

Drevas was so taken off guard by the question that he unthinkingly responded, “Who?”

“The Reachman.” Rana’s faint smile acknowledged the irony.

“I … do not know,” Drevas said. “We lost him in the tomb somewhere.”

“I am afraid we cannot wait,” she said quietly. Her expression was full of sympathy for what Drevas_ ought_ to have been feeling. It was pleasant, how detached he felt from anything that would inspire such a look in her eyes.

“I understand,” Drevas said. After a moment, he added softly, “Thank you for remembering his name.”

Rana reached out to grip his arm briefly, then began to corral the villagers into the boat.

“Come on!” Drevas heard Seyne bark. “Eiman! Quit your gawking and get a move on, boy!”

“But what _is_ that?” The young Nord pointed back toward Last Rest, up onto its curving roof. There, unmistakably silhouetted against the spangled twilight as they carefully, was a pair of elk antlers. Drevas heard a bark of a laugh escape him; a cloud of his own frosted breath obscured the image for a moment; and then the silhouette was gone.

No mystery. No heroics. Yavni had simply doubled back to fetch his mount… and had then taken a shortcut.

Drevas lingered at the shore until the last villager was on the boat, buying his inscrutable companion some time to find his way down off the roof. When the mounted stag loped its way through the snow toward the beach and came to an ungainly halt, Drevas heard the Argonian grumble something under his breath to Captain Rana.

Rana sighed, reached into the pouch at her belt, and produced several more coins. Satisfied, the Argonian beckoned to Yavni. Yavni dismounted and helped the Argonian haul the skittish animal onto the craft. The villagers gaped at the elk, packing themselves as tightly as possible on the opposite end of the boat. Drevas, however, approached and gripped Yavni’s forearm firmly in greeting.

“We’re off to Dhalmora,” he told the old man.

Yavni grunted. “And then?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Yavni looked at Drevas for a long moment with unnerving fog-gray eyes. The elk, uneasy with the motion of the boat under its hooves, let out a strange sound, half bleat, half moan. 

At last Yavni said, “Make up yer mind, an’ I’ll follow.”

Drevas nodded and looked out over the water. He could still feel the strange empty place inside his ribcage, but all at once it seemed to take a different shape. The Argonian pushed off from shore and began to unfurl the crimped sails. The boat rocked gently, and the elk let out another bleat, loosing its bowels on the deck and causing the Nords to murmur irritably among themselves. 

But Rana, Seyne, and Drevas were silent, all gazing the same direction. Southeast across the water, as though they could somehow see Red Mountain from here, molten streams of Tamriel’s glowing lifeblood painting its sides.

Mother Morrowind was calling her children home.


End file.
